


Unwanted Blessings

by Tallianna_Sulbane



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Civil War, Elder Scrolls Lore, F/F, Lore Compliant, Mystery, Post Alduin, Romance, Romantic Tension, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Thalmor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 81,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallianna_Sulbane/pseuds/Tallianna_Sulbane
Summary: Is it truly a blessing to be endless? Serana wakes to a world she no longer knows. Lost, scared and confused, she is taken under the wing of a mysterious woman who seems hunted by many powerful players in this new Skyrim. Set in a time after Alduin's fall, the province is recovering from the dragon's reign only to be thrown back into civil war once again. Whilst Serana persues her heart little does she realise that their movements are being watched. Watched in both benevolence and malevolence. Only time will tell who catches them first.





	1. Searching

Moonlight tipped its pale beauty across the still dark landscape. Somewhere in the distant trees an owl screeched, a sabre cat growled warning to its clumsy cubs, and a lone wolf sang out its melancholy. It was a gloriously haunting night. Loneliness was so heavy it was almost a taste on the crisp, cool air.

There, atop a grey, lichen smothered boulder, sat she with eyes of molten copper, skin like pearls and stagnant blood, stilled by an unbeating heart. Wistfully she lifted pale fingers, letting the night time gentle breezes weave their delicate way through.

She thought, much to her own mind’s absence as to any dedicated effort of contemplation, of how some things, some truly precious things seemed blissfully timeless. That such things, like the nightly chill, the habitual, short lives of animals, and the feel of starlight on her skin remained, where all else familiar and solid seemed to have melted away in the face of countless passing years.

Melancholy lapped at her shins. A constant, damp presence, one that made her steps heavy. From time to time it swelled and rose like a listless tide, swallowing that little bit more of her spirit.

Endless. Was it truly a blessing to be endless?

With a heaving sigh that seemed to shift her ribs in her chest, Serana Volkihar lowered her fingers to rest once more on the stone. She shifted her sight to the glow of torchlight, warm and welcoming, the small shadows of activity murmuring echoes of life upon the clear plains. She was watching the city for a particular ripple.

Most would be sleeping at this hour. She could see guards, walking back and forth across battlements and the gates, watching for the unknown surprise threat that might come to beat at the gates of their home this night. Among the figures on the walls, and those at the sequential lower gates that she could see, illuminated by pulsing braziers, there was a Khajit. A single guard watching over a collective of colourful tents, a caravan no doubt, though Serana puzzled as to why they were not allowed to seek safety within the city. But that was all the trivial momentary wanderings of her distracted gaze.

No. Soon she would come. That great pacifier of a notion. Not yet, not in a undetermined time in the distant future, but soon, living in the moment just beyond the next.

Serana was aware of the gates opening. She watched, stretching her pale neck just a little, as a woman, cloaked in a raiment of deep green, a pale dress of washed out blue peeking out from underneath, stepped out from the deep shadows. She could see little detail from her boulder, the distance between it and the city too vast for her eyes. Only the shapes of colour and delicate gate of her walk. With a shivering eagerness, the silent ghost of her dead heart saw fit to set the echo of its beat just a little faster. Few had left the city since the beginning of her vigil, but maybe, maybe this was her.

The figure descended the sloping path from the main gates at a steady pace, stopping briefly to pass a handful of words with the Khajit guard, but in no great hurry to proceed quickly.

The urge to stand, to descend from her perch and move just that little bit nearer, came close to maddening her. It would have been foolish of course, to make her presence known without first confirmation that the figure was who she hoped it to be. She was too old to be that foolish. She should have been at least, if her parents’ lectures were to be believed.

The shrouded woman passed by the last vestiges of man crafted structure that surrounded the palisade city, slipping into the silvery palette of the moon lit plains. She left the road once firmly out of the sights and memories of the watchmen at their posts, turning roughly to where Serana sat. Through hollow and over hill she walked, picking her way with noticeable familiarity across the rocky earth. At one moment she stopped, seeming to peer around the lunar lit landscape, searching.

At this moment Serana discarded her cautious neutrality, and stood waving a hand high above her head so she might be noticed, her pale skin shining like a beacon in the black and grey landscape around her. If this woman was not who she thought then she could dispatch her with little difficulty, should events turn to violence.

The woman saw her and returned the familiar gesture, though perhaps with stunted enthusiasm, adjusting her path to meet the foot of Serana’s rock formation. At fifty yards, the features of her body and her face became clear, and Serana relaxed her tensions, recognition soothing her concerns.

She slid from her perch just as the woman reached the stone, slipping to the ground before her, a little dust picked up and clouding briefly in the darkness.

The cowl of forest green was pulled down by lightly tanned hands, crisscrossed with small scars, and dark curls tumbled forwards, framing a face of delicate feminine countenance and, at the same time, premature sobriety. Beneath dark angular brows, grey eyes looked upon Serana with curious, well settled surprise.

“I must be honest, I did not really expect it to be you waiting out here.” The woman said, her voice quiet, not quite welcoming but neither carrying the bite of immediate disapproval. Purposefully it seemed balanced in preparation listen, and to then to mark approval on Serana’s actions.

Serana held no such doubts. She was cheered at the site of the woman, more so than she had any sensible right to be, and gave a smile that she hoped conveyed her pleasure. “It is good to see you again.” She confessed openly.

The woman refused her easy cheer. “You have put yourself in danger by straying so far from you kin Serana. Few in Whiterun would hesitate to attack a vampire if they knew one was so close to their city.” Still, she spoke without defined emotion, though upon her carefully constructed features she let slip an almost imperceptible dip of her brows. A little frown, marred the constructed peace of her features.

“I needed to see you.” Serana begged silently that she could make her voice convey the deep truth of her words. She wanted to infect the woman before her with her own joy, and drive away the mask that shadowed her face. Freeing her, she hoped, to return her sentiment.

“Home…” Serana hesitated, feeling the empty ache within her that longed for the ideal behind the word, one that she knew she’d likely never feel in her father’s presence again. “…it was not what I’d hoped for. My father has not changed, and I needed to escape before he could set his hands upon the elder scroll. I needed to find you.”.

The stoic front melted away. In a gesture of warmth Serana had not known for many waking decades, the woman stepped closer and wrapped her warm hands around Serana’s, holding them firmly. “I’m so sorry Serana.” She said, and Serana believed her.

Her hands were lightly calloused. Serana could feel the worn smoothness of them won from practiced and repeated actions, against her own unmarred, unnatural skin. The gentle heat of the contact spread soothingly up her arms to her chest, warming her against the chill she had not realised had settled into her bones in ages past. “Thank you.”

The words fell between the two women, breaking the last hold of the mask.

A soft, gentle smile, as precious and beautiful as frost under starlight, spread across the woman’s face, and she gave Serana’s clasped hands a comforting squeeze. “I had an inkling I would see you again” She offered lightly, and with winning warmth. “That you found your way to me is impressive. How did you manage it? So much of Skyrim must have changed.”

Dark truth lapped at the base of her tongue, bonded with her melancholy, threatening with eager delight to break the hard won happiness of this reunion she had longed for as soon as they had parted. She would do more harm if she did not tell her, and in all truth the woman may know of her watchers already. So, with reluctance, Serana explained her travels, but hid away the deaths. The woman need not know of the corpses in the fort.

 

***

If the guards thought it strange that a single, unarmed woman had left their city, then returned with a heavily shrouded stranger an hour later, they made no comment of it. Though, on closer passing inspection of their purposefully turned gazes, perfectly averted away from their approach, Serana surmised that perhaps they somehow knew it was best, in this case, not to ask.

What they knew, or how such knowledge had come to them, Serana could not be sure. Although she largely kept her head down and her molten copper eyes hidden below the edge of her heavy hood, on guarded occasion, in their ascension to the city gates, she risked a glance up to study the woman leading her.

A face with striking eyes, a sketch of a necklace, and an apparent fear at the sight of the costal fort. Those three separately innocuous things had allowed her to track her saviour down, all being mentioned in the dead elf’s letter. But with that her knowledge of the woman withered.

No name had been given in their exchanges. Serana had offered her own, and it had been taken, and used pleasantly. However there had never seemed a moment to ask for the woman’s. Not before her father’s dominion had swept up before them, casting terminal shadow to their brief journey and companionship. When opportunity had become lost, vanishing with the woman’s tumultuous exit from the castle, Serana had found herself longing in the space of the absence. The pit of her heart gaped open and she felt it’s own absence more keenly than ever, when she realised that she’d had no means of finding the woman again.

Now, with the reaction of the guards, her father’s reaction to the woman, and the letter, she knew, regardless of title or label, her saviour was someone of measurable power. At least within Whiterun, if not further beyond the hold.

The Imperial woman held herself with a grace that would earn, at least mild approval from Serana’s mother. A feat few could hold claim to, and certainly no mortal had ever obtained since their collective ‘ascension’. A certain air of softened nobility seemed to resonate in the woman’s stride, a well-practiced, habitual command of softer, more gentle aspects of the unspoken language of the body.

The pair were admitted into the city without second glance, the pair of masked guards nodding at the woman, signalling that the heavy wood should be pulled back for them. Once they had stepped through, Serana making sure to keep her head down, the great slowly swinging gates were bolted and barred firmly behind them.

An invisible fist gripped Serana’s neck, a swell of sudden tightness catching hold of her throat and squeezing, till her airways felt husky and parched. She stopped, and stood quite still for a long moment. Attempting to calm herself in the face of the press of the stone, pushing back the tide of her memories.

_Stone, all around her. Nothing but an inch of air. Dark. So dark she couldn’t see. Her nose brushing the limit of her world. The sounds of her own screams causing her ears to bleed, the sound itself incapable of escaping it. Unable to move, to sit, or lie. Forced to stand till her muscles stiffened and her bones calcified into that rigid stance. Eternity, pressed inside a box and forgotten about. Crying out to a deaf, distant, uncaring world. She’d cried for a lifetime._

A glance of concern with shimmering silver eyes. A touch, at first just a brush, then a presence as fingers were intertwined with her own. The tug on her stationary hand persuaded Serana’s feet to once more take up their tarry. Her saviour led her onwards, walking this time close to her side.

“Are you alright?” She asked, her voice foggy and distant to her ears, leaning just close enough to Serana that her soft whisper could only be heard by the vampire.

With cobbled stone beneath her feet and the warmth of a human at her side, Serana’s mind clung onto its slipping sanity fervently. The darkness of the night provided little solace for her, the walls were still there, and she tried, she truly tried to bear it no mind.

She could see tightness in every corner. Suffocation in the stones. Closing air in the tapestry of wood and thatch. All too close, pressing against her. Her mind, her body…

Serana held great value in truth, and in this instance, she had no reason to lie. “I can’t breathe.” She replied, her skull swimming with heavy sound and movement as nausea took hold over panic and fought for supremacy. Pulse might be beyond her body now, but breath was still vital.

She swayed, though such things were beyond her own perception in her growing delirium. The woman at her arm encircled her waist, quickening their pace and making a lurching push to a door.

Then, in the next moment of Serana’s clarity, there was no door, only a dark room, a lowly murmur of cinders in a fire pit, a single thrumming blossom of crimson amber, dying at it’s centre.

She was alone. The warmth of the woman was gone. She felt the cold seep back through her limbs, coiling back to her bones. Traveling on a single, terrible breath, the icy absence of her cursed gift spread and scraped along her limbs, chilling her right down to her toes, a shiver ricocheting in its wake. Serana feared it would consume her, as it had done before, after the first lifetime of tears, and she would be lost to the endless depths of unwaking sleep again. The crush of immobile, looming walls pushing her tighter and tighter, till her bones splintered and her skull cracked. And her heart. Her dead, unbeating heart would give up its memory of life, its ghost pulse. And she would be forgotten in the well of her nightmares. Forgotten.

The shaft of pale moonlight that had followed their entry was shuttered, the last embers stuttering and dying in a final gust of air. The door swung shut upon the world and everything within fell into silence.

Seconds eked past where all was hauntingly still. Serana’s knees began to shudder and shake as the waters of dread seeped into her joints. Coiling, thick, clear icy liquid, distilled from all the eons of utter absence, one year upon another, slipping into each other, becoming a great heaving mass that sucked her under its surface and pulled her down.

A body, smaller than her own, with fire in its flesh, caught her descent and held her up stubbornly. Strong arms looped under her own and dragged her through the darkness. She was heaved into a chair. Solid, the frame supported her shaking muscles.  She melted into the simple comfort of sitting.

There was a spark in the darkness, beyond where the limit of the prison should be. Then a rustle and scratching of movement. Amber light flashed. Once, twice, each time illuminating a face, hard with concentration, eyes on the tinder heaped below the woman’s shaking hands. On the third attempt the light caught and the spark became a flame, washing the room in flickering light.

With a sigh so heavy with relief the woman’s shoulders lifted once free of its burden she coaxed the flame, breathing gently upon it, guiding up to take hold on the dry wood in the pit. The fire obeyed her commands, the light rose, alien warmth prickled the tips of Serana’s toes.

Once seemingly satisfied that the fire would hold, the woman turned to her and was at her side in a moment. Concern made her face soft in the half glow, her lips slightly parted, her eyes shimmering reflectively. A feather light touch flitted across Serana’s forehead as the woman assessed her attack.

“Look at my hand.” She coaxed her as she had the flame, gently and with great care.

Serana found it a physical ache to follow the request, frightened that by drawing her gaze away from her face the wall might close back in. But she drew a long breath, closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again turned them reluctantly from the woman’s face to her hand.

It was curled slightly, the skin creasing, casting curving shadows across a smooth palm. Slowly, so very slowly it began to sway. Like the dance of a reed on the banks of a languid river, back and forth it tipped, easing into a breathing rhythm.

She soon found her mind steadying to meet this carefully measured pattern. It calmed her. Neatly, it crafted around her a deep, encompassing, cushion of achingly sweet drowsiness. She was sure that she had been awake for too long. Certain that her worries had pressed upon her, wearing her so thin. Now this swell and roll of beckoning motion was pulling her back together, and laying her down low to a new sleep, free of the nightmares, true rest, watched over by an ever-present guide and guardian.

Her saviour let her hand drift softly to Serana’s lap, where it wove its fingers around the barely conscious older woman’s own.

“Are you better now?” She asked on the breath of a whisper, hushed and gentle, like the texture of Yellow Mountain petals caught under the rays of the setting sun. Accompanied by a dainty fleeting smile, it would have surely put any on looker at the most agreeable of eases.

A great heaving sigh, that felt it lifted Serana’s very ribs, bid itself free of her, and she sank back further into the comfort of the chair. “Yes”.

The haze thinned a little, and then came the irresistible itch of her ever-hungry curiosity. “What was that?” She asked, her voice low and melodic in its induced tranquillity.

The woman kneeling beside her drew tingling circles on the back of Serana’s hand with her calloused thumb. A flash of keen intelligence sharpened in the watery depths of her pale eyes, a studious wealth of knowledge lay beneath, the extents of which seemed beyond Serana’s fading understanding.

“It is a little complex,” she explained. Her concern, now becoming familiar and always it seemed readily given to her, wrapped Serana in a soft blanket. “And I do not wish to tire you any further.”

Serana squeezed her hand weakly and hoped the movement urged the woman to answer.

“Sweeping, calm motion,” her saviour twice over began, “is a calming well known reflex of the body. When a mother rocks her child, it is the slow, controlled motion, along with the warmth and safety of the mother’s arms that induces in the child sleep. What I used is a similar principle. When a person panics their eyes dart to many fleeting points around them, adding to their manic, disorientated state. If this can be brought back to familiar rocking movement, then lucidity and eventually rest can be coaxed out of the mania.”  

Words washed around Serana like sweet song. She heard, and for the most part she understood, but true meaning would not sink into her at that time. Weariness had beaten the meaning to her bones, and in that moment, she found her eyes heavy with waiting sleep.

It was strange. She had not rested in so long, yet she felt she had spent half her life and more asleep, sequestered away in that stone prison. How strange it was to wish for sleeps familiar and transformed embrace her body was slipping into.

Tender mirth, half hidden though unashamedly fond, coloured the notes of the woman’s lilting voice. “Sleep now Serana” she urged, placing a mesmerizingly touch on her forehead, brushing aside a few strands of her dark hair, and the last remnants of the older woman’s resting worries.

Clinging to a final simper of energy the entirely vulnerable vampire pushed out one last question.

“What is your name?”

A pause. She hoped it was a pause that signalled the flicker of a smile upon her saviour’s face, for her eyes had slid closed and she had not the strength to open them. After a breath, warm damp air coiling on Serana’s pale cheek, the nameless saviour gave her name and unknowingly set her anchor in the ghost of Serana’s silent heart.

“Maesa”. 


	2. Marching Orders

When Serana awoke, she did not immediately realise why. Sleep had been a warm haven, filled with soft furs and kind murmurs spoken on sweet lips.

In comparison the world that greeted her was cold and loud, and not long after the tide of rest had drawn back did she realise that an unfamiliar voice was shouting.

Words and their meanings escaped her drowsy state at first. She rubbed at her eyes and stretched out her heavy limbs, finding herself cushioned amongst clean linens lightly scented with lavender. Curiosity and memory fought through the haze and Serana slid her eyes slowly open, wincing at the many speckles of bright sunlight that peeked and glimmered through the thatched roof of her waking world.

She lay in a bed. A modest room of well-worn but carefully maintained belongings surrounded her. She was alone, although a strong sense came to her that beyond the faded, heavy fabric that draped as partition from the door frame, there lay many more souls. As the last vestiges of heaviness drew back the heated temper of the rumbling voice below became words, and an argument emerged.

“I’ve known you for too long for you to start lying to me now!” The last word was delivered with a thick thump and the rattle of crockery.

Serana pulled herself quickly from the embrace of the covers. She felt the cool air of the room wrap and snake around her, and found she was quite without boots, corset or cloak. She immediately spied them upon the lid of a low chest and reasoned that her unshod tred might very well provide her with a better silence, so she abandoned the notion of adorning herself and proceeded directly to the doorway.

“Damn it woman! Don’t give me silence in the place of answers. I need to know if you’ve put the town or our pack…”

There was a pregnant pause. Serana was beside the patterned partition now and could hear, at a strain, the faintest remnants of a much calmer, softer voice. The exact words were lost to the distance.

Whatever was said seemed to calm the antagonist into a state of guilty reticence, and when the man spoke again his voice was much quieter, heavy with the weight of sullen emotion. “You’re still a part of the pack. Even if you’re not… well… Aela would say _gifted_ , but I’m not so certain anymore.”

Serana lay a hand on the woven cloth and swept the heavy fabric aside carefully, creeping through to a small hallway, a set of wooden stairs leading down, and a similar doorway opposite.

Her senses must still have been dulled for she realised, far later than she should, that she was not alone. Brown eyes, shimmering warmly in the dim reflections of light from the floor below, watched her from the doorway opposite. Eyes that flashed a silent warning from the midst of a stern sombre face, accompanied by the sharp flick of a single scarred finger pressed to pink lips.

She was to stay still, and quiet. Serana had no immediate reason to reject the reasonable request, and so she waited. Rebellion would follow quickly if required. If the almost silent party downstairs should become endangered for instance.

“You can go now Vilkas.” Serana’s ear focused in on _her_ voice, and her attention was tugged immediately to the soft glow of candle light from the floor below, as it cast two blurry shadows on the wooden walls. “You can tell the others that I have endangered no one, and that I will be leaving the hold for a time. They may rest easy for a while, at least where _I_ might be concerned.”

The shadow figures on the wall opposite shifted and drifted, accompanied by the shuffle and rustle of clothing. Serana studied the shadows, eager to discern the movements accompanying such sounds that flowed up on the air. A gasp, a murmur, and an almost physical tightening of tempers. Perhaps sleep still numbed the sharpest of her wits, perhaps if she were rested, **blooded** , her mind might have drawn to what was truly happening. But then perhaps it might not have been the woman opposite her who acted first. Perhaps Serana may have come to quiet feelings and notions far sooner. All for the lack of a little rest and a drop of blood.

Movements much closer drew Serana’s gaze from the shadows to the peak of the stair, where the brown eyed sombre woman was shifting forward, sliding booted feet along the floor boards and crouching down. Lithe yet powerful, she sank lower till the orange glow from the floor below illuminated her features. Serana watched for her reactions as the woman’s eyes caught and followed movements she could not ascertain, taking particular notice of how the muscles in her jaw drew tight.

“Leave.” A one word command, laden with the expectation of compliance just as swift and final came quietly up the stairwell.

Hesitation came instead. The woman crouched on the stair seemed to coil tighter still, her muscles primed either to spring forth or to snap her grip shut around whoever stood at the base of the stair.

Serana felt breathless with the emotion of it, tumbling and confusing complexities of deep rooted emotions, fragile and worn yet wonderously raw and tumultuous. If she were not so invested in their outcome she might have found it all pointlessly dramatic.

Suddenly it was as if unseen hands had poured a bucket of cool water upon a forge. The air grew thin and fresh once more. The woman on the stair relaxed back into her bones with a ragged sigh. And from below there came the slam of a door, followed by a whisper of fluttering cloth.

“Lydia?” A quiet, vulnerable voice asked.

The woman on the stair stood tall and descended quickly, not sparring Serana a glance. “I’m right here. Are you alright?” Lydia’s voice seemed at strange odds with her stature. Whereas the woman was broad and tall, her physique clearly one of practiced strength and martial style, her voice took on a softer quality.

Serana felt the pinch of something sharp and ugly when she heard the familiar concern and tender ministrations in those words. The pinch became a jolting jab when she heard the reply.

“I’m alright, honestly. Please my dear, don’t fuss me so.”

Serana found her own body set single mindedly on the descent of the stairs, eager in some secret way to nudge herself into this unfamiliar intimacy. A small flutter of tickling nerves set to patter in her chest as she neared the lower floor.

“Do you think Vilkas will…” Lydia fell silent as Serana emerged. She stared at her, her gaze sharp, but her expression purposefully stoic.

The room was much as Serana recalled from the night previous, and where she couldn’t remember, it followed the lines to a pattern similar to the bedroom. Modest and comfortable, if a bit well worn. At the long table, which largely overwhelmed one end of the dwelling sat a woman whose posture sang out of weariness, clearer than if she’d at that moment succumbed to an exhausted faint. All movement seemed heavy, sluggish, her grey eyes appeared watery and dimmed, and despite her clean and collected appearance there emerged at the edges a fraying. Despite these notions and truths she stood swiftly upon seeing Serana, and crossed the short distance to her.

“Lock the door Lydia.”

Lydia rose to do so and soon after Serana heard the click of the lock.

She was at once drawn entirely to the woman before, her whose calloused hands had risen to press smooth fingers to her forehead.

“How do you feel?”

Serana relished dearly the genuine concern that coloured her voice, though it saddened her greatly how unfamiliar such concern was. “I am better. Thank you.” She replied, in what she hoped was a gracious tone. “But…” she hesitated wetting her suddenly dry lips, “…Are you well? You look tired.”

“She is.” Lydia interjected before Maesa could speak. “But she won’t rest.”

Maesa dismissed Serana’s concern with a casual wave of her hand and flickered her eyes to Lydia with an expression too swift to define. “I will rest once I’m in Markarth.”

“Markarth?” Serana queried.

Maesa guided Serana to sit on the low bench beside the long table, and seated herself just close enough that their knees might brush against each other. She checked her forehead again with the back of her hand, then lifted delicately Serana’s arm running her smooth fingers along the pale wrist till she stopped at the hollow before her palm. A small frown played along her brow.

“After what you told me of last night I though it wise to leave Whiterun for a while.” She explained, pressing her finger tips a little firmer to Serana’s skin.

“Is it really so dangerous?” She joined Maesa in her frown. Serana found it difficult to believe that such a small band of ill organised soldiers could afford a real threat, especially considering the fact that she had killed many of their limited number.

“Yes.” Both Maesa and Lydia said in only a breaths pause from perfect union. They shared a grim smile, rich with unuttered secrets Serana wished keenly to be privy to.

Lydia settled herself to lean against the upright support at the base of the stairs, her gaze studying Serana sternly.

“The Thalmor are not to be underestimated,” Maesa gently yet firmly kneaded the soft skin at Serana wrist, her little frown dropping neatly into equal parts perplexity and curiosity. “They’re dangerously driven when they put their minds to a single objective.”

“Especially…” Lydia continued, “…when they believe they might finally have found the culprit for their embassies little brush with fire.”

Serana looked once more between the two women. She was so eager to know, to understand the unspoken bond between them, this shared knowledge which flowed below every word and look they imparted.

Maesa withdrew her fingers from Serana’s wrist, and immediately she missed their touch, her skin reverting back to its icy chill without her warmth.

“Are you sure Markarth is the best city Maesa?” Lydia asked, a gentle concern once again rearing, causing a touch of reproach to shadow her question. “Surely if you went to Windhelm or Riften you might find greater safety?”

Maesa’s dark curls were swaying left to right in answer even before Lydia had finished speaking. “Riften is Maevan’s little empire, she would be able to corroborate their suspicions in exchange for an advantageous little profit. Windhelm would be exactly where they would expect me to run, straight into the arms of my proud and loving co-conspirators, or so they would spin it. They’d perceive the flames as Ulfric’s plot, and seek to intensify the war once more.”

Serana listened attentively, though much of the true meaning was lost on her lacking the proper context, she absorbed what she could and noted the names. A small fear was growing steadily in her breast, lapping in cold dark waters, but she pressed it back and down into submission as best she could.

“If you go to the West you’ll be drawing attention to Delphine and Esbern.” Lydia countered. “At least if you went to Windhelm, you stand the chance that you might convince the Thalmor that it _is_ all a Stormcloak plot. They may just end up ignoring it specifically to spite him.”

A curious expression passed over Maesa’s face, and she gave a small, almost wicked smile. “I hadn’t considered that.”

Lydia threw a careful glance at Serana. “What of _her_?”

Serana sat a little straighter. She wondered whether her emotions might be seen plainly in her eyes, did she look at Maesa pleadingly? Would it help if she did?

Maesa’s beautifully soft grey eyes drank her in, invisibly drawing forth from her all her vulnerabilities to be lain quite bare. Serana prayed in that moment to any Aedra or Daedra that might listen to her words, that she might be given this woman as a companion against her loneliness.

“Are you to come with me Serana?” she asked in the most sweetly gentle voice, taking up once again Serana’s hands, this time to hold tenderly and softly squeeze. “You cannot stay in Whiterun. You are not safe here. But, if you would not object to it, you could travel with me for a while. I don’t know your plans beyond that, if they involve…”

“Yes!”

The sudden enthusiasm with which she responded seemed to throw the two women, and Serana felt her cheeks burn red with embarrassment. Whatever would her mother say in the face of her lacking grace and poise?

“Is that wise Maesa?” Lydia asked.

Serana gave her an almost involuntary glare. So disturbing and sudden, it seemed to scare from the woman an imeadiate apology.

“I don’t mean offense” she said quickly, “but you’ve already caused a lot of trouble, and Maesa needs no excuses for finding trouble.”

“Lydia!” Maesa admonished, “Serana has no blame in my troubles, in truest fact it was she who gave us the early warning of the Thalmor’s movements.”

The Nord woman seemed unashamed, though remained quiet.

An altogether awkward silence passed between the three of them, and Serana felt flush with guilt, certain that she was the cause. Certain also, that she was lying to both of them.

“I would appreciate your company Serana.” Maesa offered her, warm and reassuring as she always seemed to be.

The vampire hesitated. She would dearly jump at the offered hand. _She_ was once again her lifeline in the lonely sea, but she wasn’t sure she should catch a hold of the rope.

Maesa opened her mouth to speak again, but as the first syllables left her lips, a sharp knock came at the door.

 

 


	3. Something quite close to worry.

Maesa and Lydia shared an uncompromisingly fearful look, each standing abruptly. Lydia seemed the first to gain some sense, and rushed over to the door. Pressing her shoulder and ear up to the wood.

Serana turned to Maesa. Her posture was square, lips slightly parted, and eyes hardened shimmers. She glanced to Serana searchingly. Whether Maesa found what she was searching for or not, she seemed to take on an air of determination.

In two strides she had positioned herself between Serana and the door. From where upon the long table it rested, she had also snatched up a long dagger. She held it unsheathed, behind her back, the point down, it’s edge glistening wickedly in the lantern light. Serana could not see the door past Maesa. She saw the dagger, and how the muscles in woman’s wrist flexed and clenched tight. She was not accustomed to hiding behind someone else’s skirts, at least not in her immortal life, so she found it quite perturbing, yet at the same time a great flattery.

From beyond Maesa the door opened, and the air grew momentarily quite cold, and not from the rushing breeze that whipped around the room.

The door closed, and Serana could see the tension flood out of Maesa.

“Jenessa.” She sighed on one outward breath, relief evident in each of the three syllables.

A voice Serana did not recognise, smooth and mellow answered with, once again, well seated and warm familiarity.

It made her skin prickle.

“What have you done with time _Dunriel_?”

A dark, grey skinned hand appeared at Maesa’s elbow. A dunmer then. One accustomed to some martial style, if the scars on her hand were to be believed.

Not attempting to hide the movement, Maesa placed the dagger back on the table. “Nothing new I assure you.” Mirth coloured her words, but the hues were muted, her humour strained. “What is it? Has something happened?”

A hesitancy spoke, and told more than if an hour of explanation had been given.

“Thalmor. Not far from the city. The Khajiit brought in the news. A group of six, heading this way.”

Maesa’s shoulders drooped, she seemed to wilt under this new intelligence.

“I thought we had more time.” She said quietly, barely speaking above a murmur.

Serana’s presence seemed to have been either forgotten or ignored by the three other women. All that changed in the flick of a gaze. Before she had a moment to draw her thoughts together into coherence, Maesa was pushed aside and she was being scrutinized by two crimson eyes.

She didn’t know whether to recoil, or stare back. Skin the colour of blighted ash, eyes like blood. The only break in her pallor wer her lips, which took on an altogether darker hue. Soon she recognised on those dark lips a sneer, and knew she was not in favour.

“So this is the _duar_ who started all this” the Dark Elf spat out, Serana’s presence on her tongue having the effect of decaying bitterness. 

Beyond her immediate ire and deep distaste for this woman, Serana’s mind turned the suggestion over in her mind.

She was almost certain she wasn’t _directly_ responsible… but it was possible. It was possible that she, in some _small_ action, had caused the cascade of events leading to this confrontation.

Maesa stepped in before anymore of Serana’s worries could seed themselves deeper in her consciousness. “She warned me about the Thalmor, Jenessa.” The conviction was so strong and passionate that defended Serana’s innocence it made the vampire blush. “How can she possibly have started _all this_?”

A swell of the deepest warmth fluttered in her chest when Maesa spoke, so sudden, and so strong that she almost believed it could have been the echo of her long dead heart. She believed Serana over these two friends of hers. Twice she’d now chosen to do so. But why?

The dark elf gave a little ungainly snort. “What do you think provoked them into acting right now? The war’s been quiet since you came down from the mountain. And how did _she_ know about the Thalmor anyway?” She drew back from Serana sharply, and fixed her in her perceived place with a most disdainful glower.

The young woman at Serana’s side shook out her dark curls, and ran tanned fingers through the developing tangles. “The Thalmor needs no excuses to take _any_ action, at _any_ time. Serana intercepted a messenger patrol outside Solitude. It’s as simple as that.”

Guilt struck like a heavy blow to the gut, knocking any words she might have used to correct Maesa, or raise in her own defence, to the wayside. She could only sit there in silence whilst her mind tore down her own excuses. She should have said everything last night, told her the whole story. She only hoped she might have the opportunity to correct herself, with Maesa alone, later.

“You’re either the biggest fool I’ve ever met, or you have more blind courage than half the men in the hold combined.” Jenessa mumbled. Then she turned her attention from Serana like she was now nothing more than an annoying insect buzzing around their ears. “So what are we going to do about the Thalmor?”

“I am heading west to Windhelm, Lydia convinced me it’s worth steering their attention to Ulfric once more.” Maesa settled herself back onto the bench, sitting with grace, the soft blush of her hip distracting Serana as she brushed quite unintentionally against her.

Jenessa took up Lydia’s old stop by the stairwell, whilst the Nord seated herself on the second step.

“It’s risky, but it might just be your best option.” The Mer nodded. “Just make sure you don’t piss off the guards, or his high-and-mighty-ness whilst your there.”

“What should we do whilst you’re gone?” Lydia asked, resting her muscled elbows on her knees, clasping her hands under her chin. “We might be able to run some small _capers_ with the Companions to give you a better chance of a clean getaway?”

That same wicked smile creased the corners of Maesa’s lips. “Not so much that they suspect. Just enough to upset them for a few days. Then lead them west. There’s little point in running to Ulfric if we can’t convince them it’s all his plot.”

“Great.” The Mer grumbled, “Stuck with Vilkas and his halfwit for a few weeks. What could be better.”

Serana’s immediate dislike of this elf grew all the more certain with every breath the woman took. Though similarly, the more she heard of this Vilkas the more she became aware she didn’t like him that much better.

Maesa and Lydia ignored the comment. Then Lydia asked “When are you going to return? We could send word when its safe for you to come home.” Palpable optimism hung in the air, though it seemed doomed to a momentary existence.

Serana could not admonish the Nord’s fear of her coming loneliness. She knew that she would suffer it most keenly, if their roles were reversed.

“I’ll come back before the winter sets it.” The young woman attempted to reassure her companions. “Don’t worry. I’ll write, and I’ll keep you updated. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

“Will you stay in Windhelm the entire time?” Jenessa asked.

Maesa laughed. “A few months together and I’m certain Ulfric and I would come to blows. No, I’ll move north to Morthal as the Autumn progresses.”

“Best not leave it too long before you leave then.” The dark elf announced her sentiments so matter of factly, her voice crisp and sharp, Serana wondered on how she had ever worked her way into Maesa’s good graces. The woman stood free of the stairwell and stretched, almost feline like in her movements.

Maesa nodded mutely.

Lydia looked sullen.

Serana felt a trickle of joy seep into her dead heart at the thought of being alone with Maesa, away from these two. Her possessiveness only triggered a ghostly glimmer of worry, and it was drowned out quite completely by her eagerness.

Something dark stirred within her mind. At the back, beyond her waking thoughts, it pulled her sharply to her father, and she gave an involuntary little shudder.

Jenessa was speaking once more, though Serana had little interest in listening. She would from that point on, pay the aggravating woman as little mind as she could.

And she did pay her little mind, until the dark woman lent low and drew Maesa tightly into her arms, her grey fingers clasping the cloth of the young woman’s blue dress. Her dark lips grazed her tanned cheek, and Serana felt a rage that shook her senses. She could make little sense of the intensity. It was noise. It was fire. It burnt and blistered, as she tried to hold it within herself.

Circumstance posed as her salvation, as the dark elf swiftly withdrew. The anger melted away.

“I’ll see you soon.” Came Maesa’s goodbye to the elf, spoken on a voiceless breath, her stormy eyes wet and glistening.

And, much in keeping with the manner in which she’d arrived, the elf left.

Lydia was first to move, with reluctance, her limbs slow. “I had better go talk to Aela and Vilkas about the Thalmor hunting.” She said, hugging Maesa as the shorter woman also stood. “Take care my dear. Write soon, and often.”

The young woman agreed that she would, and then the Nord left, and Serana got her wish. There was just herself, and Maesa.

The mortal woman watched the door for a long moment, her expression clouded and distant. Serana took advantage of her momentary mental absence, and set to studying her once more, a happy pastime she seemed to be finding herself indulging more and more the longer she spent in the woman’s company.

Maesa was shorter than her, Serana stood at least half a head taller. Her skin was sun kissed, certainly nothing so pale as her own pallor. Her hair was dark and rich, almost black, but when the light caught the strands it shimmered like tarnished copper.

And her eyes. Serana could lose herself in those eyes.

She stopped her study, and sort back to herself just as Maesa turned to her, and hoped dearly that she did not blush.

Serana did not want there to be silence. She wanted between them the easy humour and comfort that she had witnessed in the interactions of Maesa with Lydia, and though she was loath to admit it even Jenessa. Yet in all her earnest attentions and attempts she felt their companionship turn to something tense and rigid, as a weighted silence did sink between them.

Maesa broke the moment easily with a careful pensive frown and a searching glance. “Are you much affected by the cold?”

Serana drew comfort from the unexpected question. She shrugged, “It cannot cause me serious injury, or at least it couldn’t before. I wouldn’t say it’s comfortable for me.”

“I have a cloak you can have; it should keep the worst of the weather away.” With her infectious comforting smile, she offered the small luxury to Serana without hesitation. “Come, we need to be ready to leave as soon as we can.”

Maesa led her back up the creaky wooden stair. It felt somewhat like intruding, walking there now, even in the woman’s company. It was a bizarre almost pervasive sense of an intimacy unearned, especially in the face of the unattended state she had left the bed in. Covers twisted and turned, rucked and tangled from Serana’s hasty rising. It looked much like a marital bed, still warm from the connected bodies only just absent.

The younger woman took no notice. She swept around the room in a pattern of well-practised efficiency, moving from table to shelf, and chest to draws, collecting all manner of small items, gathering them all together in the midst of a smooth valley at the end of the bed. Serana felt at odds standing dumbly by the doorway, so instead she took up a seat next to the growing collection, tugging the blankets back into some semblance of neatness.

“Do you need anything to travel Serana?” Maesa asked as she carried on. “Food? Clothing? Blood?”

Her casual manner threw Serana into a softened state of utter bewilderment. Perhaps vampire traveling companions were not so rare an occurrence in this wonderfully strange woman’s life. Strange how she herself had almost forgotten blood. How was that possible?

She thought back.

Surely it wasn’t.

And yet… it was.

It had been five days.

That wasn’t possible. Five days since Maesa had found her. And what of the years before her awakening, the span of time she had no measure for. When had she last drunk blood? It might have been decades. It might have been centauries.

_A haze of colours and sounds, too bright, too loud for her. She couldn’t think in its chaos. Her senses were flooding with information, wave upon wave cutting into her solitary silence._

_Then two hands on her shoulders, firmly pushing her back up right. One was wet._

_No._

_It was bleeding, profusely. Wrapped in mottled grey cloth, a red bloom spreading swiftly across the material._

Maesa’s blood? Was that possible?

Before Valerica had locked her away, she’d mentioned a device. Whilst walking past the polished marble of the encompassing columns, her dark cloak billowing behind her, her heeled boots clicking against the stone. To stop her father, she’d said, a trap had been left, only triggered by mortal blood.

It didn’t seem that fool proof in retrospect, but she had felt a lot younger then.

The mortal blood would be harvested and collected, then it would be transferred into Serana’s sarcophagus, providing her with a reviving stimulant, enough to wake her.

She _had_ fed then. Maesa had unknowingly fed her, and she had not fed since. Something seemed wrong here.

Her prolonged silence was noticed, and when she reached back into herself from her thoughts, she saw Maesa standing a few steps away, watching her inquisitively.

“Are you alright Serana?” she asked carefully and slowly. “You seemed lost for a moment.”

She looked to the younger woman and pondered exactly what she should say. In all honesty she had felt lost since she’d been awakened, except for that moment on the plains outside the city, when she’d recognised Maesa was approaching.

“I am fine, truly.” She decided upon. “Any blood I require I can find for myself, don’t worry.” She attempted to sound casual. She wasn’t convinced she’d managed it.

A flash of steel, though not in the form of metal, glinted sharply, and Maesa’s brows drew into a deep frown.

“What do you plan to feed on Serana?”

A spark, white hot and flesh rendering, crackled between them. She felt the burn keenly and physically flinched.

“I can’t have you feeding from just any wayfarer who has the unfortunate luck of crossing our paths.” A step, then another, until Maesa’s legs touched Serana’s knees. “We don’t need a trail of bodies behind us. So, answer me. Who do you plan to from?”

This intensity. This… fire, it scared the vampire. It frightened a deep and primal element of her nature. Like molten metal suspended above her bare skin, she felt the invisible press of the threat.

“I would not draw unnecessary attention to us.” Serana began. At first it was difficult, her words strung clumsily and awkwardly in a messy line of thought. Then she began to find her stride, and with it a little bite of her own. “I want to escape from my father, not declare my location. Besides there are plenty of hiding places for bodies where the buzzards might finish the remains.”

“It’s not _our_ safety I’m concerned about,” Maesa countered swiftly and quietly. The intensity ebbed away gradually until something of an undercurrent was left. An emotion Serana could not place, but it was something quite close to worry.


	4. A dangerously pretty face

They emerged into the overcast soggy morning a short while later, walking out into the quietly busy streets. The city was working around them, as cities often did, in a slow methodical churn of action repeated upon action, day after day. Merchants in the square bought and sold their goods, prices always up for fluid negotiation. Children and their weary parents went about their respective notions of important business, weaving ways through the mercantile crowds. Nearby a black smith was beating upon her anvil, and the air was rich with the dry woody smoke of the forge.

Despite its chaos, its brash clamour, Serana found herself lacking the nauseating swell that had attacked her the day before. For a creature, in all the conventional terms, _dead,_ Serana revelled joyfully in the living drama about her.

It was such a different world from her father’s court, such a happy change. And there beside her, donned in a cloak of damp forest green, stood a woman who in no more than five days had totally enraptured her. She could, beyond an obvious physical attraction, barely understand the reasoning behind the intensity of her feelings.

Maesa in her kind, calm, collected manner, with which she seemed to handle most tasks, led Serana through the city to the gates. She exchanged pleasant greetings with a few dwellers, bobbing her dark uncloaked curls politely, and passed a handful of friendly words with the blacksmith whose dark skin was streaked with the soot and sweat of her trade.

During this Serana was left to ponder herself and her feelings, chasing lines of logic down to find meaning at the collecting of the threads. Her first impressions of Maesa were as a saviour. The hero albeit mortal that had driven back the seclusion of her shadowy tomb. And who with long scarred fingers, tenderly curled, had helped her up after her flesh and bone had found itself withered from long years of sleep.

Then she had been the naïve and trusting guide. A lamb more and more as Serana’s strength recovered. So many times whilst her back had been turned and attentions drawn beyond could Serana have done her harm. Killed her in fact. In truth an action of which she would be quite expected. and easily capable of carrying out. Even now as she glanced towards Maesa’s pretty tanned neck, seeing the pulse throb beneath the skin, she could have her blood in heartbeats. Yet. as she glanced, she only felt the ghost of her hunger. It should be much fiercer, as she’d thought earlier that morning. By all accounts she should be ravenous for sustenance, especially considering her still unaccounted years of slumber.

How was it that she did not need? She wanted, for certainly she doubted whether any miracle besides ridding herself entirely of her _gift_ , would ever free her of the want of the warming sweet taste of blood between her lips. It was a terrible addiction.

So if she was not drawn by a twisted attachment of survival, it must have stemmed from gratitude, and perhaps a queer sense of protective duty. To stop the kindly young woman from guiding any more agents of Daedra through the northern wilderness and directly into the arms of the most dangerous man in the region.

It somehow seemed to cheapen her feelings, if that was all the attraction truly was, coupled perhaps with a fear of being alone.

She could not say with any conviction that she knew Maesa, the way a friend or even an acquaintance should. The entire sum of their conversation could fit into a skalds verse. Similarly, should she feel guilty about that? Should this attraction… call a kettle black, lust, be rightfully named anything more or less?

She confessed to herself, as they walked once more down the sloping entranceway to the city, beyond its crumbling walls and surprisingly attached gates, that a new potency had taken hold deep in her stomach. One that ignited when she looked to the woman beside her.

“Jenessa should be waiting over by that bridge.” Maesa pointed to a relatively sturdy construction of stone and mortar near the foot of the grand mountain on the horizon.

Serana could see no one waiting but reasoned that perhaps the dark elf was hiding in her attempts to watch for the Thalmor. Secretly she was glad not to see her. After all Jenessa could try once more to convince Maesa to abandon Serana’s company. Her white knuckles drew whiter still as she clutched the hilt of the dagger at her hip. She would not allow that.

Darkness was quickly forgotten as Maesa began to speak of the scenery. “How much has changed Serana? Is nothing truly similar? Surely you recognise the mountains and rivers?”

Serana allowed herself a soft wistful smile. “It’s mostly the inhabitants that have changed. The rocks and the rivers have become a bit more rounded.” Seeking an example to prove herself she gestured towards the mightiest of mountains, its steep rocky slopes reaching high into the cloud line before them. “The Throat of the World is much the same as I remember it, and I would be greatly surprised if its inhabitants have much changed.”

She did not see the puzzling look that passed over Maesa’s face, but when the woman next spoke she could hear it. “You mean the Greybeards?”

Serana nodded. “Yes, though I didn’t realise they were quite so common a knowledge as all that now. How do you know of them?”

There was a pause. Maesa seemed to be considering the mountain, her eyes drawn up to the cloud line, her lips slightly parted and her brows crinkled in thoughts deep and complex.

“A few years ago, I spent a great deal of time on the mountain.” The young woman began slowly, then sped up to add off handily, “Much if not all of Skyrim knows of the Greybeards now. It is a site of pilgrimage for many.”

“They let them into the sanctuary?” Serana asked incredulous. Not even when the most powerful of men came knocking in _her_ Skyrim did the gates of High Hrothgar welcome anybody.

Dark curls swung smoothly. “No. Seldom is anyone allowed entry. Pilgrims stop at the doors, and supply offerings of food and gifts. The town below offers supplies regularly and sends a young man up the seven thousand steps.”

Serana let out a helpless snort. “There aren’t seven thousand steps. Unless the mountain has grown of course. When did that rumour start?”

Although Maesa shrugged, she did not answer. They were close to the bridge now, and Jenessa was still nowhere to be seen.

Maesa held up her hand, bidding Serana to wait as she continued to the lip of the cobbled stone.

The plains around them were deserted. Any activity that might have been taking place near the city was now well out of sight and hearing. The river babbled pleasantly below the bridge and the strong breeze whistled lowly, cooling the air.

Maesa looked concerned, but she didn’t speak. Something else beyond Jenessa’s disappearance was making her nervous. Serana looked to the north. The river curved off eastwards, in the direction their journey would hopefully take them. She was attempting to remember the name of the water when she looked back to the bridge, and found Maesa gone.

Panic reared like a frightened horse, and she rushed to the spot where Maesa had been standing. Nothing. Not a trace. Not even kicked up dirt or dust marked any sign of a struggle.

Maesa’s name was fresh on her lips when seemingly form out of the air itself a pair of dark arms clamped around her waist and dragged her back. Towards the edge of the bridge, and then over it. She fell briefly through the air and was caught by another pair if arms, this set lightly tanned. Before she could catch her own wits Serana felt familiar scarred fingers press themselves to her lips, silencing her voice as a warm mouth lingered close by her ear.

“There are Thalmor on the road.” Maesa whispered. “Hush now.”

True enough, when Serana listened, there beyond the gurgle of the river, came the tread of many boots. The road had been clear. She’d looked in all directions, so where had these Thalmor come from?

Maesa held her close. So close Serana could feel the pulse of her heart and the tensed shifting of her muscles. She found it difficult to focus on much else, but gradually she became aware of voices above them.

“…take the southern road. You take the west. You the east. If any of you do not return within the day, it will be assumed that the terrorist has fled in your direction and incapacitated you. Do not cause long standing damage to the target. Elenwen’s orders. She is to be captured alive. Be wary of any and all travellers, and report all you see.” The speaker was clearly in command of the operation, Serana was perturbed at once by the almost courtly affection in his speech.

Several voices, both male and female sounded off their compliance, and after only some moments pause did the footsteps start to scatter steadily off in many directions.

Though all was seemingly quiet again, Maesa’s fingers had not left Serana’s lips, and her mouth was still close to her ear. Serana could not see her face, could not judge the danger, so she remained as still and as quiet as she could, the very tips of her booted toes submerged in the icy water of the river.

The dark elf manifested from out of the sunlit air and said with a sigh “The _duar_ have all gone now, split off and guarding the roads.”

Maesa’s hold relaxed, and she let Serana stand freely. “That’s a relief. How did you know they were using alteration?”

The dark elf snorted, “Magic like that leaves a trace in the air, you can see it shimmer if you catch the light right, and there’s a smell, like powdered sulphur and mammoth cheese.” Jenessa’s nose drew up and wrinkled the skin between her brows. “Don’t know how mages can stand it honestly. But what happens now? You can’t travel on the roads anymore.”

Serana looked about her and took in the sight of the muddy waters. “Could we follow the river?” She suggested, hopeful that they would not turn back, even more so that Jenessa would leave their company.

The subject of her ire looked at her with such a blatant gawp of utter derision, Serana felt anger coil tightly in her breast, her face beginning to feel hot.

“You might not feel the cold _Nord_ ,” Serana’s race was all but spat out at her. “but the rest of us lowly foreigners would lose limbs to frostbite before half a mile.”

“I’m sure…” Maesa began, trying as usual to defuse the brewing storm.

Jenessa, however, wasn’t finished. “Skyrim’s harsh enough as it is without missing toes or even legs. Imperial blood is not brewed for paddling in frozen rivers, you idiot.”

At Serana’s momentary bafflement Jenessa dismissed her idea. “You’d better head for Mara’s pass and come up west of Windhelm. No major roads, and the pass should be quiet this late in the autumn, but you’ll just miss the snow if you’re lucky.”

“I suppose we’d sneak around the bandits at Valtheim Towers as well.” Maesa’s resignation cut through Serana’s simmering anger. “We’d have to pass Talos’ shrine and skirt the foot of the mountain then follow through to the pass.”

“It does sound complicated when you put it like that, but it’s the only way if you don’t want to run into Thalmor, or…” the dark elf shot Serana a filthy look, “…if you don’t want to freeze to death.”

That was the line. Serana snarled, bristling. “What is your problem with me?” she demanded of the elf.

Jenessa’s hand fell smoothly to the hilt of her blade. “You’re a stranger, with a dangerously pretty face, and little to no sense or notion of what you’ve stepped in. You’re foolish, clingy, and I can already tell you were so much raised with a golden spoon you’re still trying to work it out of your…”

“Enough!”

Both quarrelling women were struck momentarily silent. Maesa was openly glaring at Jenessa.

“Go home.” She said quietly, her voice chillingly flat. “Keep yourself and Lydia out of the Thalmor’s way, and stop anyone from the city apart from the Thalmor from following us. That includes Vilkas. Now go.” With that she turned and walked out into the sunlight, along the rocky shore of the river.

Serana was eager to follow and to leave the stunned elf beneath the bridge. She stepped out only to feel a blade at her back.

“You harm a hair on her head Nord, or a piece of her heart, I’ll find you and sever every single link in your spine.”

Then the blade was gone, and when Serana whipped around to look she could see no one below the bridge.

Only shadows, and reflected from the river, shimmering bands of undulating golden light.


	5. Noise and Fury

Shaken, perturbed and more than a little bit angry, Serana hurried to catch up with Maesa, ignoring the discomfort of the sun and the fleeting sharp prickling that simmered behind her eyes. At her approach Maesa glanced back. Serana was struck by the sombre sadness that hung limply in her expression.

“I’m sorry Serana.” She said quietly when she had come to walk beside her. “Jenessa can be abrasive at times. I hope she didn’t upset you?”

Yet another easy show of concern and Serana fell deeper. “Not overly so.” she answered, mostly truthful. She attempted to make a temporary peace with her own anger, for Maesa’s sake at least. “She is… fierce for certain.” she admitted.

Despite her attempt a sharp little echo of the dark elf’s blade itched at her throat. She coughed once, quietly.

Maesa didn’t seem to notice, rewarding her with a brief yet well humoured laugh. “I would say that describes her pretty well indeed.” The young woman smiled radiantly, “though she does soften her outlook towards strangers. Eventually. We were quite lucky she didn’t realise that you’re a vampire. We would have had _many_ more problems if she had.”

“So, who does know?” she asked, eager and curious to find out who Maesa had told and trusted.

“Just Lydia, and of course myself.” She cast a smooth palm casually through the air indicating to nothing of particular importance. The swiftness with which her mood had changed would have had far more impact had it darkened, but in the shining of her calmly happy demeanour and her good cheer, Serana found a greedy stream of joy ran strangely through her.

“I couldn’t have not told Lydia; we do live under the same roof after all.” Maesa continued, unaware of how the light unintentional suggestion tugged sharply at her companion’s briefly fine mood.

“Are you lovers?”

Serana said it before even the thought of asking had entered her mind. When she realised that she had indeed asked, and that the question was so profoundly personal, she flushed a deep glowing crimson.

Maesa seemed to simply stare for an agonisingly long moment, seemingly thrown quite off guard by the sudden question, and Serana’s implied interest in such a detail. Then her face cracked and shattered into a broad stretching smile. It was followed swiftly by a poorly contained tidal wave of fitful giggles, quite unbecoming for a lady of stature, but a blessing in Serana’s mind.

“Lovers?” Maesa stuttered between boats of uncontrollable laughter and gasps for air. “By the Aedra no! Lydia’s more mother than lover to me, damnable woman that she is.”

Serana tried to cover her deep embarrassment with mild curiosity, but internally she was sighing waves of built up anxiety. ‘Thank the Aedra indeed.’ She thought.

“Why on Nirn would you be interested in such a thing anyway?” Maesa asked finally, beating back her outburst, her serene calm qualities slipping back over her features.

If Serana’s heart still beat as a mortals did, she would have felt it shudder to a stop. “I…” she cast around for a reason. Maesa waited for her answer expectantly, as she wordlessly led them up and away from the river bank, to the steepening scree of the old mountain path.

“You seemed very close.” Serana had desperately searched for a reasonable answer and upon finding it, clung to it. “I just wanted to know why you trusted her above anyone else.”

In her thrashings for an answer Serana failed to notice how loose the ground beneath them truly was and, as she picked her way up the ever rockier terrain, she felt her heel slip quite smoothly out from underneath her.

She slid swiftly down, small, sharp pebbles and rocks digging into her palms and under her finger nails as she sought purchase on the slope. She came to a sudden stop as her ankle jarred against an outcropping rock, and she hissed through clenched teeth as the pain ricocheted up her legs.

“Serana!” A few tumbling stones told succinctly of Maesa’s approach, though her descent was far more graceful on account of it being far better planned. “Are you alright?”

Her tanned hands helped her to stand, then checked over her bones from head to toes. When they came to Serana’s bleeding cuts and scrapes, which dotted and criss crossed her palms, the younger woman ordered her to sit on a well-appointed nearby rock.

“It’s fine.” She tried to relay to Maesa, who crouched down before her, her green cloak fluttering out upon the stones. “Once I’ve fed the wounds will heal quite quickly.”

“I can heal them faster.” Maesa pronounced, taking up her battered hands, cradling them like the downy heads of new born babes.

A stillness passed over the Imperial woman, peaceful and contemplative. It seemed to fill the her up, seeping into every pour and hair. Then just as she was close to spilling over with that serene aura it began to flow through their combined hands.

A warm light, coloured like shimmering wet sand just before twilight, encompassed Maesa’s fingers. Slowly with a soft flicking tongue of cool flames, the magic slipped over and smothered Serana’s wounds.

Restoration magic by its very nature would not work on a vampire, of this Serana was certain. Her mother had told her such. Restoration magic was only to be used by the living on the living, a world of which they were both no longer a part of.

The sensible scholarly persistence of her brain schooled her to tell Maesa such before her energy was completely drained. “Maesa I…” she began gently, hoping to be kind, but she stopped short.

She stared.

Then she gasped.

Fresh, pink skin lay where scratches had been. The freshly forming bruises were yellowed after thoughts. And wherever the dirty grit had worked its way beneath her skin it now rested or tumbled from the clean surface.

“There. See?” Maesa ran her thumb over the mended flesh of Serana’s hand, leaving a light tickling trail on the new skin. “Do they feel better?”

Serana stared blankly at her, stunned in a way she had seldom been before. Could the workings of an entire school of magic have changed so dramatically in the years she’d been sleeping? How was such a thing as she’d just witnessed possible?

When Maesa made to stand and detach herself from the vampire, Serana stopped her. She pulled her back down, locking their eyes together. Silently she began demanding answers. In her own time, she’d been dangerously intelligent. Naïve, yes. She’d certainly realised that flaw, but her wit and intellect had been second to none she had ever crossed minds with. Yet here, knelt before her, light sun blushed skin showing concerned expectancy, she was confronted with an enigma she could not even identify let alone hope to unravel.

Blood. Magic. Maesa.

An undercurrent was at work below the surface here, and try as she might, she just couldn't quite see it yet. Something unique crouched before her.

_“…something unique...”_

A wash of fear made her stomach lurch and roll. Every muscle in her body drew tight, her hands began to quiver like plucked strings. Serana realised that the Thalmor were not the only threat.

No, they had much more to fear.

_The great hall was empty. The court had retired to their own pursuits. Only the dead and dying cattle remained, groaning almost soundlessly, their mouths agape and slacken in a weary terror that was such a constant in their timeless existences, it drowned them in their own minds._

_Atop the balcony Harkon leant forwards, resting the weight of his body upon the cool smooth stone of the banister. He looked out over the leftovers of the banquet._ " _She's a strange one Serana. What do you know of her?" He did not look at her when he spoke. He did not need to. He knew where she was. He could taste her fear._

_From the deep shadows of the archways she watched him. After a long moment she spoke._

" _Who?"_

_From the moment she had walked through those doors she'd known it had been a mistake to return home._

_“The woman who brought you back.” Harkon said quietly, a slow smile drawing back his pale lips. “The one who has occupied your thoughts since she left.”_

_It had been a far greater mistake to bring her here._

" _Little."_

_It was true. She knew next to nothing, not even her name. With every passing moment she regretted wasting her opportunities to ask._

_“Strange.” A quiet contemplative quality came over the vampire lord. He rolled his head languidly across his powerful shoulders, from side to side. Back and forth. Letting his gleaming eyes slip shut._

_Serana thought of her. She let the memory wash around her, cradle her. She poured all she could imagine, all she could remember of her, into the single wish that she might see her again. That she if just for a moment might lay her hand upon her shoulder, so that she could feel it’s warmth, it’s presence, and draw comfort from it._

_“She is quite beautiful.”_

_She stood abruptly straight. Her eyes were on the silhouetted form of her father._

_Still his head moved back and forth, side to side._

_“Perhaps I should have made her stay. She was so… unusual. I don’t think I can recall a time someone has so captivated you.”_

_Side, to side._

_Back, and forth._

_“If you turn her Serana, you could keep her here. She could be yours.”_

_Serana looked to the flagstones at her feet._

_“I don’t want to keep her. She isn’t a pet.”_

_Back, and forth._

_Side, to side._

_“No. She’s something unique. Something powerful.”_

_Side, to side._

_Back, and forth._

_“She’s also never coming back.”_

_Harkon became very still, his head tilted just slightly to the left, as if he’d just caught the sound of something on the air._

_A chill that only the dead could feel ran down Serana’s spine, as he turned slowly, that slim smile stretched out upon his face._

Maesa was talking, asking her once again if she was alright. Strange to be asked so constantly something that no member of her family had asked her in many waking years.

"I'm fine." She murmured watching the dance of the breeze through her dark locks for a long moment. She soon released her clinging hold. "I'm sorry I'm such a burden to you."

"You’re not a burden." Maesa assured, though she did so quietly, standing slowly. "An unexpected addition, certainly, but not a burden." She no longer sounded very convinced of such a sentiment.

Serana stood and started immediately up the scree, tugging her loosened hood back over her watery eyes.

The sun was after all quite bright.

"Serana?" Maesa's call made her pause in her ascent, though she did not turn back. "If there is something troubling you, please tell me. No burden is worth bearing alone."

The wind whipped around them. As Serana spoke the air snatched away her answer.

When next they could hear each other without interruption, she had changed her mind. "I am not certain."

Maesa’s warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, she could feel her presence close behind her.

"Tell me." Came her soft, gentle voice, close enough to her ear that Serana could feel the whisper of her breath.

Shivers cascaded through her, and yet she felt warm. "I…"

A roar shook the mountain, as loud as thunder, it filled the air, sending rocks tumbling down the slope.

Maesa spouted a curse, and set to dragging Serana down towards the bottom of the valley.

Serana stumbled and slid down behind her, until both women lost their footing and began to fall, head over heels down the loosened terrain. They came to a halt in a tangled heap beside the river.

Serana sat groggily her mind swimming like a preserved fruit in a jar, unable to tell for a time which direction was which, save for the blinding brilliance of the sun.

A shadow, bigger than Maesa's house, consumed its radiance.

For a timeless held moment, caught in a fold between utter disbelief and certainty, Serana found herself staring. "Is that…?" she asked, as the air around her began to vibrate and hum, static sparks rising from the displaced stone.

Beside her, half fallen awkwardly over her arm, Maesa groaned. With some unsteadiness she drew herself to her knees moving off of Serana.

Her eyes seemed to fight for focus. The air snapped and crackled around them, as something approached.

Serana couldn’t quite peace it together. The name escaped her tongue.

At once sharp terror flooded the Imperial’s features. Twisting about, she contorted her body, throwing her hands up towards the eclipsing entity, just as the building tension broke.

The world ruptured into shapeless noise and fury. Blinding light blistered the air.

For all her power and ability, Serana flinched.

Yet no pain came.

When she dared to open her eyes, the sky was sickeningly empty.

"Quickly!" Maesa ordered, sweat sheening her brow. She scrambled to her feet, dragging Serana up alongside. "Down the river. Before it comes back."

"What about the bandits?" Serana asked, trying to cling to the last conversation between Maesa and Jenessa. She needed something to make sense. She needed to be able to understand _something_. Her question came just in time to be lost as another roar shook the earth and deafened them both.

Maesa would not stop. She'd started running now, one hand clamped around Serana's, the other on the smooth pommel of her sheathed blade.

Ahead of them loomed a ruined structure. A watchtower, and bridge that spanned the mountainous valley they now entered. It crossed high over their heads. Serana could see silhouetted figures running along it's length.

"Maesa!" She protested seeing one of the figures pointing and shouting at their approach. Another drew back a bow, an arrow already knocked. "Maesa! They’ve seen us!"

A third roar made the mountains quake. The mortal woman ran faster. Under the bridge, swerving right, then left, as the arrows that fell around them, the icy water at their ankles kicking up in frothing white plumes.

She tried calling out to Maesa again, only to be met by a half-screamed order to "Just keep running!"

Suddenly an almighty impact echoed out across the valley.

Stone blocks the size of men came crashing down from the bridge. The men soon followed. All landing on the waiting rocks of the river, their spines and skulls cracking with the impact. The water flowed a crimson red.

Craning her neck around Serana looked back to the carnage. The bridge was no more than two stumps of broken stone, pointing up to their destruction.

Up… and up, placed against the murky cream of the low cloud, it hung reticent of those below.

A muted cry tumbled from her lips unbidden as she took in all that was death and destruction in a being of flesh and bone. Grey wings, stretched membranes of skin taut between gnarled appendages tipped with cruel hooking claws.  A scaled tail, thick with muscle, swung without care, crashing through the last vestiges of the watch tower, its structure crumbling as if it were made from straw. The narrow beaked head so still in the air, pointed, concentrated, made to find, to hunt, and to kill.

And it saw them all.

A great plume of primal fire arced out across the sky. Another body fell from the ruins, blackened and smouldering, it’s stench filling their lungs despite their growing distance from the bridge.

Fear flooded Serana's senses as she felt the heat on her pearl skin. Her mind drew forth bubbling flesh, splitting skin, charred hair, eyes that screamed where the mouth could not, until...

Her legs ran faster.

She ran abreast with Maesa, and the younger woman relinquishing her hand.

The valley sloped down before them, a great forest of shadowy pines stretching out to another rocky range in the far distance. If they could get to the cool damp of the trees, perhaps they’d be safe. If they could make it that far.

"There!" Maesa shouted over the screams of the dead and the dying.

She darted over to the left, towards an outcrop of rocks. Serana followed blindly.

As they neared it her streaming eyes picked out the crumbling edges of an entrance into the stone.

A cave. Sanctuary.

But their escape had not gone unnoticed.

The bridge was no more. It’s defenders were naught but bodies.

The beast let out a cry, a long screaming sound, a signal to begin a fresh hunt.

"It's spotted us!" Maesa cried out, twisting her head back to view the approaching doom. "Quickly, run to the cave!"

Serana didn't need the telling. She knew that the bitter brother of death chased them now. And unlike his temperate, apathetic sibling, it came for _them,_ with purpose, with spite, and with horrendous glee.

The cavern with its walls dripping with moisture seemed to fling its arms wide open for her, ready to cradle her in its cool and damp embrace. Serana dove into the darkness, slamming into icy stone. Once she caught her breath she found herself sobbing with relief.

Then her mind caught up with her thoughts, and as one voice they cried out.

_Maesa!_

She looked about her.

The young woman was not there.


	6. The Little Storm

Outside, the beast was shaking the mountain. It’s coiling fire melting the outer most rocks, turning the blood soaked sand of the riverbed to glass. Amidst the smoking flora of the once lush valley, Maesa stood, alone before the monster.

Her name was torn from Serana's lips, as she hurried back to the entrance of the cave and found her there, standing like a swallow before the storm.

In the blinding daylight the Imperial held her bow of polished wood aloft, the string pulled back, a feathered arrow held there, a breath before its loose.

It sliced through the air, cutting against the currents of the building gales.

In that moment the word came to the vampire. The name of the terror she had not been able to fathom.

"Dragon.” She whispered.

Naming it brought her no comfort.

In a cry more of un just insult rather than injury, the dragon screeched as the arrow dug deep into it’s flank. It arched back it’s great head and bellowed to the cosmos.

“Serana!”

She barely heard her above the cacophony. Maesa did not remain still to await the creature’s terrible retribution. The young woman hurtled herself towards the cave, towards Serana. Her eyes were wild with fear, and worry. The dragon saw and began it’s desent.

Maesa ran, the jaws of death close to her heels.

Serana screamed out her name once more, opening up her arms, the hitch of terror drawing ragged breathes from her tearing lungs. The young woman threw herself forward for the last half dozen steps and slammed into Serana.

The impact threw them both back into the darkness, and the world became a chaos of noise, dust and rock. Just as they became engulfed in the inky black, Serana wrapped her body around Maesa’s.

Then there came silence.

…

A heaving, wracking cough shook her body, but it was not Serana who had coughed.

Around them lay utter darkness, she blinked attempting to get her eyes to adjust. Her only awareness was of the heat of Maesa's body in her arms. She tightened her hold as she felt her muscles quaking, no doubt the adrenaline was fading.

"Bloody…Dragon…!" Maesa wheezed, shakily reaching out and around, searching for something on the floor of the cavern.

"Are you alright?" Serana asked. She began to tentatively run her hands over Maesa’s back and shoulders, seeking assurance that no injury hid there. She couldn’t smell any blood. Just a comforting scent of mountain flowers and meadow grass that clung to her dark hair.

"I think so." Maesa said, as a cough wracked her body again. She let out a grunt of frustration, "Damn it!" she muttered. Serana felt her searching cease.

"What is it?"

From between them came a soft pulse of sudden light, captured like a fire fly in the safety of Maesa's half close fist. It illuminated their surroundings, casting long flickering shadows over a sizable wall of rubble at their feet, and a yawning blackness stretching into a tunnel at their heads. Clasped in Maesa's other hand Serana saw a shard of her beautiful bow, splintered and fractured, it's once shining surface deeply scratched.

Maesa tossed the bow away, her expression unreadable, and began to steadily rise.

Serana let her own hands fall away from they’re places upon her body, but she felt the weight of the absence immediately. The young woman sat and looked at the rubble, holding her captured light source up, moving it side to side as if in some wistful hope that it would change the outcome of what she saw.

Her dark curls swayed as she shook her head and sighed heavily.

"Well, we can't go back outside, at least not this way." She twisted round and looked down the tunnel, carefully releasing her light.

The little glowing orb floated steadily away, leaving them in ever thickening shadows.

Growing, crawling discomfort snaked its way into Serana's mind as the light drew further and further away. Before she could take stock of her own reactions, she reached for Maesa, laying her cool fingers over her freed hand.

Maesa did her a great curtesy and said nothing. Instead she twisted her fingers around Serana’s and held her tightly.

The tunnel seemed to turn left not far from where they sat, then if the shadows the floating mage light cast were anything to go by, it steadily rose. The distant light flickered and died. Without delay Maesa summoned another.

As this second orb lit up the world Serana caught Maesa watching her wordlessly.

Her smokeless grey eyes grazed over her pale skin, an unspoken word on her lips.

Serana hoped… she wasn't quite sure for what. Perhaps for some further action, some indication of deeper affection. The next step on drawing closer, becoming closer.

In a heartbeat her quiet contemplation was gone. Maesa turned away, standing tangling their fingers tighter and helping Serana to her feet.

"There might be another entrance to this cave, with any luck." She said, drawing her blade in a fluid practiced motion. "Though who knows what lives here that might just dislike our intrusion."

 _'Hopefully no dragons'_ Serana thought as they began to walk.

She could quite happily never see another one again.

***

It was night by the time they’d traversed the cave. The moon shone brightly in the sky, casting the rocky plateau, upon which they now stood, in a silvery glow.

There had been spiders.

Giant spiders.

They’d slathered and spat sticky saliva out at them. Serana had fortunately been hit only the once, on her lower arm, the foul creature perhaps aiming for her magic wielding hand. Maesa had fared less well, the foul substance matting her beautiful hair.

Yet in the face of freedom this didn’t seem to bother her that much. The younger woman smiled wildly at the smattering of stars in the inky sky. Happy to be under the heavens once again.

Before them, covering much of the plateau, lay a lake. Wide and still like glass, shimmering a milky white in the moon’s lights it made the scene mystical and intoxicating.

“Mara’s eye.” Maesa explained with humoured reverence.

Serana wondered whether this was a new saying of contentment at first, but quickly realised that she was talking about the lake.

“Why is it called that?” she asked staring across the calm waters.

“Some drunken tale or another, probably.” Maesa reasoned, though she seemed contemplative, drinking deeply of the wonderous sight. “It _is_ peaceful here. Though perhaps that’s just in contrast to the spiders and the dragon.”

“It’s beautiful.” Serana allowed herself the sentiment, taking in every detail she could. Committing every aspect to a memory she could cherish.

On a softened breath Maesa intoned some form of poem.

_“Frosting Moonlight lifts its pale beauty,_

_To drink in the worlds loveliness,_

_So that on nights of silver, old men might weep,_

_And lovers might give their hearts away.”_

“That’s lovely.” Serana murmured, letting her eyes slip silently over her. From the gentle slope of her forehead, down past dark brows, along a softly curved nose, then to pink lips cast white in the luna light. “Where does it come from?”

“I’m not entirely sure. A priest of Mara I assume. I first read it in one of her temples, many years ago.” Then, for a moment, Maesa was lost in that memory and Serana saw a fleeting glimpse of the girl her companion had once been, all in the glimmer that lived in her eyes.

Talk of temples and clergies to the divines made her uneasy, restless. No longer would such places have a simple meaning to her. They would always carry a long burdened weight. No more beholders of plain truths and certainties, they would always carry within them an unbroken, festering dread.

Somewhere, long ago she had been shattered in such a place.

A sudden shiver alarmed Serana as it took hold of the other woman.

“Are you cold?” she asked, laying her hand gently on Maesa’s shoulder.

Maesa smiled sheepishly. “A little.” She confessed. “We should probably keep heading for the city though, rather than stop here for the night and build a fire.”

She felt like she should protest, much to her own ire Jenessa’s words rang heavily in her ears. There was sound logic in moving forward. They were exposed out here in the mountains. They’d probably be safer in the city.

Besides whether they stopped here or walked to the waiting ‘City of Kings’, she could still enjoy the beauty of her companion by the waking moonlight.

“So long as your happy to continue,” she remarked, giving Maesa’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, “I will follow on.”

A light trickling laughter cascaded from her lips and Maesa lay her warms fingers over Serana’s. “I need no vows of obedience or loyalty Serana. Just your friendship and your good humour will be enough.”

A smile played upon her lips, though its edges were tightly drawn. “Your friend then.” She slipped her touch away sadly. “Lead on my friend.”

***

**From amidst the swaying reeds of the crystal-clear pool, two wet glistening eyes watched the women leave. Large as lily pads, blinking lazily, the colour of lush dewed grass, the Watcher followed them till they merged with the distance, becoming no more than spots on the descending mountain path.**

**The Watcher moved through the shallows, slipping through the water like lantern oil, its bulk dragged behind. It made the surface slosh and roll. It made no sound as it crept to the centre of the lake, pulling itself higher in the gathering swell as it went. It emerged at the lakes centre, a slimy stinking mass covered in water weed and algae.**

**Its two oily black eyes were still turned in the direction of the now distant women. It didn’t matter that it could no longer see them.**

**_She_ did not rely on the constrains of a mortal eyes to see. _She_ could watch them even if they were stood atop the battlements of the Nord’s city. **

**With an effort that made its wobbling mass ripple, the dark water Watcher thrust its mass up into the night air. At the height of where it managed to reach a single pin prick of light blinked into existence, and hung there effortlessly.**

**Twinkling as brightly as any star, it glimmered, then grew. Soon the waters became awash with dancing light, reflecting the brilliance as well as any mirror of glass or metal.**

**The light began to fill out _her_ shape. Arms appeared. Skin formed of moonlight. Legs that peeked out beneath a silken liquid gown made from the nights sky between the stars. Finally came a head, a woman’s face, beautiful and splendid in a way in which was unmeant to be quantified in Nirn’s mortal tongues. **

**The dark Watcher sank below the surface of the lake, it’s mission complete. Now _she_ would see the women. _She_ would take the path from here, and it could go back to its resting at the base of the lake amidst the bleached bones and swaying weeds.**

**The figure above the lake paid the Watcher no mind. _She_ could now watch without it’s assistance. _Her_ otherworldly eyes found them at once, the two women walking the way to the City of Kings. **

**On a whisper that became one with the breeze the being breathed a word, a name, one that left _her_ lips and rushed down the mountainside. **

**Down, tumbling, picking up speed as the ground fell away beneath it. On and on, racing the breeze that was both at its back and an inseparable part of its existence. Twisting and turning till in a burst of icy energy that chilled both the women to the bone it found its targets and whispered the word into their ears.**

**As one they glanced back towards the lake, finding only starlight and the rising faces of the two moons.**

***

After some time, with the moons high in the sky, Serana half turned to her companion and voiced a question that had been plaguing her mind. “How long has it been?”

Maesa’s gaze flickered to her, a mix of confusion and deep-seated concern evident across her features. “What do you mean?”

“Since I was placed in Dim hollow. Do you know?”

“I may have some notion. But are you sure _you_ want to know Serana?” sympathy, well-meaning replaced the confusion swiftly. “Might it be better not to know.”

“Why would that be?” Serana did not mean to sound accusatory, but she could not hide her growing frustrations. She did not want to be some hapless damsel, fumbling and stumbling through this alien world. Her knowledge, her pride, had been stolen from her by the passing those countless years, and she wanted some semblance of it back.

Maesa looked up to the twinkling heavens, following a few of the constellations with her roving ghostly eyes. Again, she was drawn into an unseen past.

“I used to copy manuscripts when I was younger. Scrolls filled with spidery text and ancient ink blots. I had to read the contents carefully and recreate its meaning in the modern tongues. As such, I have some fragmentary knowledge of the history of Nirn. Sometimes it proves quite useful.”

A nervous itch pulled at the sides of Serana’s stomach. She felt a little nauseous as the shadow of this knowledge drew a cold mask over Maesa’s star soaked face. She licked her lips finding her mouth parchment dry.

They were beside the tumbling course of a winding river. A few time worn rocks jutted out from the near barren landscape. Maesa paused beside one of the largest of the outcroppings, leaning back against its smoothed surface, resting her hands in the crook of each arm.

Serana stood before her waiting, watching. Her mind warned her against looking for answers, but her curiosity would not let her turn away.

“Who do you blame for locking you in that place?” Maesa asked slowly letting her gaze drift down from the stars to rest tenderly on Serana’s face.

“Must you use that word.” Serana answered, shifting her body awkwardly, looking away briefly before finding herself drawn in once more.

“I cannot use any other. It’s the right word. I do not imagine you were put there of your own free will. At least not with the prior knowledge of the consequences. Regardless, no proposed reasoning would ever make me believe that what has happened to you is right.”

The skin of Serana’s jaw grew tight. “You have no idea why I was put in that place; how can you possibly pass judgement on whether it was right or wrong.”

Maesa’s gaze hardened in return, and for a glimpsed moment Serana saw the flash of steel in those gentle eyes. “You did not attack me when you stumbled out of that sarcophagus. You did not harm me in anyway during our journey to your father’s castle. You defended me when he threatened my life.”

Harkon’s sallow grin lingered briefly in both their thoughts, his cold hands close to enveloping Maesa’s vulnerable throat when she’d refused his blood.

“You are good and kind Serana. No one deserves what you have gone through.”

For a while Serana found herself unable to speak. Her words refused to form. Her mind was awash with confliction and chaos. Guilt lay a leaden weight in her stomach, whilst in her chest, where her heart had once beat she felt breathless, giddy. To feel just one was impossible. To feel both was agonising.

It had to be soon. She _must_ tell her soon.

Serana swallowed down the lump that had risen in her throat and took a leap of shaky new born faith. “There was… well, there _is_ a prophecy…”

Recognition flashed behind the silvery grey of Maesa’s eyes like summer lightning. “The Elder Scroll.”

Serana nodded gravely. “Yes. We had two. They told of a way to _halt the tyranny of the sun_.”

Maesa paled and she knew at once that the Imperial understood the significance of such a term.

“My mother and I didn’t wish a war with the whole of Nirn, so we ran from my father’s court, I with one scroll, my mother with the other. She placed me in Dimhollow, then fled. I assume since my father doesn’t have the other scroll, he never found her.”

Maesa’s pallor had not settled, in fact she almost looked as if her skin had turned to ashen stone, what little colour remaining after her horror, being stolen by the moon light.

“Your scroll,” she breathed. “Where is it?”

“I hid it.” Serana replied quickly. “It wasn’t safe to travel with it; it draws too much attention.”

“And your father? He will not be able to locate it independently?” Her voice was urgent, almost a demand rather than a question, the knuckles on her clenched hands almost bleached bone white.

“No.” Serana stated, her conviction firm and grounded. “No he will not be able to find it, unless I were to tell him where to look.”

She didn’t demand to know. Serana had expected her to. Instead Maesa seemed satisfied with her assurance. Almost as if she did genuinely trust her.

“That is a great relief.” She sighed, the tension that had been coiling in her body, unfurling on her outward breath.

Serana was still left with Maesa’s question and although the Imperial did not ask her to answer it again, she felt the weight of its incomplete state upon her. She knew with a grim certainty that it could not go unanswered.

“They are both responsible” she said finally.

Maesa understood. “Then you have all the more anguish to gain if you ask your other question. If you had mortal acquaintances Serana they are long dead. Nirn and its peoples have changed infinitely from where they were when you last knew it. It has been a _long_ time.”

That word, the way she said it sent chills down Serana’s spine until she began to tremble. _Long_.

If she opened that door, if she found out how many years had been stolen would she ever be able to close it.

Could she forgive her parents?

They both were responsible. Her father and his lust for power. Her mother and her need to undermine him. She had been caught between them since birth. Caught like a beast in a snare, tugging this way and that, searching for affection she was now unsure had truly ever been given without recompense.

“Will it make you happy?” A gentle voice was tugging at her. Maesa’s fingers curled around her wrist, pulling lightly at her limp arm, calloused pads resting into the hollow where her pulse should be. “Will it return to you what was taken, knowing? Or will you waste your present chasing your past?” Her voice was soft as starlight, her lips curled soothingly into an undemanding smile.

She asked nothing of her. 

She offered her sympathies and advice freely, and Serana adored her in that moment with a blossoming affection she had no hope of stemming.

She wanted to say, _‘It’s you’_.

She wanted to forget the question at the forefront of her mind and ignore the troubling world within which her father and mother’s war had its grasp upon her life.

She wanted to get lost in Maesa’s life. To hide there and become a part of it, so that it and her own might just become indistinguishable.

“No” she answered. It would not make her happy. What would make her happy was standing before her, swathed in the light of the mid-night sky, and she knew she must chase the chance of such happiness.

“You’re right,” Serana smiled.

It was time to take a chance for happiness.

In a fluid motion Serana clasped Maesa’s hand in her own, her fingers weaving them together tightly. She pulled her thumb across her knuckles. She watched for discomfort in Maesa’s eyes.

None revealed itself.

She pressed forwards eager on the swell of their talk to deepen the connection. They had this precious time, and she did not intend to waste it.

“Tell me of yourself?”

Maesa’s warm demeanour wavered for just a moment, before settling on what might have been a small slither of embarrassment. “Of myself?” she repeated. “What would you like to know?”

Serana began with the first logical point of interest. “Well, you know of my parents, such as they are. So what of yours? Do you…well… do you get along with them?”

“They’re dead.” Maesa said. She drew across her face that same unreadable glamor, but she did not walk away, and she did not untangle their hands.

Quicker to seek forgiveness than to realise that there was actually little blame she could really own, she rushed to apologise.

Maesa hushed her gently and turned with the flow of the river. “Let us walk whilst we talk.”

Serana nodded meekly and followed in the pace that Maesa set. After a few steps the Imperial spoke again.

“They died, a long time ago. The man who fathered me, in a war. The woman who bore me, in childbirth.” She paused and looked to Serana, realising she might need to clarify. “I suppose all you need to know about the war is that was about 30 years ago, fought between the Empire and the Aldmeri dominion, led by the Thalmor.”

“The same Thalmor who are hunting you?”

Maesa nodded grimly. “The very same, perhaps even some of the same individuals who killed my father. He was a Blade, and whilst he wasn’t killed in the main fighting, after a peace was agreed upon, one of the terms announced was the disbanding of the blades. The Thalmor took this into their own hands and two years after the fighting had ended they hunted down and murdered any and all Blades they could find.”

“Including your father.” Serana concluded. “What was your mother? What did she do?”

Maesa’s expression softened into a distant form of genuine fondness. “She was a healer. A mage attached to the Imperial City to aid the rehabilitation of the citizens. My parents had their tryst whilst they were both serving in the city, then they went their separate ways. My father was killed a few weeks after and I was born six months later.”

Serana tried to smother a smile, thinking over what a baby Maesa might have looked like. Dark locks and her little grey eyes blinking out at the world for the first time.

“My mother died from a tearing to the wall of her womb, caused by my somewhat problematic birth. She was attended to by my aunt, also a healer.” She explained, all with a matter of fact tone that could almost make her appear cold, but Serana saw the shadow of a cruel regret that was not hers to bear, and knew that the story pained Maesa. “After my mother died, my Aunt took me to Bravil, to the temple of Mara where I was fostered by the High Priestess, Nayr-Keth. I stayed there till I was eighteen, then left to wander the province, working both as a hunter and a healer.”

Serana was brimming with questions. “What of your aunt?” she asked. “Did she remain nearby?”

“No.” The younger woman said firmly. “She disappeared the day she left me there and was never seen again.” Despite what she said, Maesa did not seem angry. She had every right to be, Serana felt her own anger rise in sympathy, but sensed there was more to the story than perhaps she knew.

“Were you angry?”

A long drawn out sigh flooded from her as she seemed to wilt slightly. “I was. For a long time, I was constantly cursing her for abandoning me, for leaving me with strangers when I should have been with her. Nayr-Keth dealt with my tantrums with near constant patience. She eventually managed to convince me that there must have been reasons for her abandonment. The dear woman deserved a sainthood for her labour.”

The same fondness surfaced again briefly as Maesa thought of the priestess.

Once more it faded.

“After many years, just as I was about to reach my sixteenth birthday, we found out her reasons. The Thalmor were making inspections of the nearby cities, looking for anyone associated with ‘dissident groups’, both religious and political. The Blades came under the latter. Being the daughter of a Blade, even though he was long dead and we had never met, my heritage put me in danger. Nayr-Keth hid me in the crypts whilst the agents searched the chapel. Apparently they were there following up a cold case lead concerning a woman with dark hair and grey eyes.” A grim smirk creased Maesa’s lips. “Seems I take after my mother’s family. Nayr-Keth always told me I was the spitting image of my aunt.”

Serana was aghast, “After sixteen years they were still hunting your family?”. She could scarcely believe it.

Maesa shrugged, “Elves live for a long time, a lot longer than the other races. Time doesn’t have the same shape to them. The regional head of Skyrim, a woman called Elenwen, is grotesquely driven, I don’t suppose half a century means all that much to her.”

It wasn’t meant to be a slight, but Serana felt the comparison keenly. She too would live for a long time. If she had an enemy would she hunt them for sixteen years?

A dark part of her answered _yes_ immediately.

“The Thalmor moved on eventually, but it was warning enough. Nayr-Keth started to prepare me for life outside the chapel, training me with a bow, intensifying my magic lessons. When I left it was a necessity, but there was a satisfying sense of a planned conclusion about it, it was time for me to leave, to learn what I couldn’t in Bravil.”

The vampire was quiet for a few moments, listening to the busy breeze as it rippled through the bare branches around them. “Why didn’t you enter the priesthood?” she asked, the presence of what must have been a pious upbringing somehow not quite fitting the Maesa she knew. “Surely you would have been safe if you’d been ordained into the chapel fully.”

A light trickling laughter fluttered from Maesa’s lips. She smiled and looked at Serana almost pityingly. “I would never have made a good cleric.” She admitted. “Nayr-Keth always told me that from the moment I was placed in her arms she knew I would never be for a life of contemplation and prayer. ‘You’ve got a little storm bottled up inside you’ she was fond of telling me. I trained for a while in the preservation of scripture, copying texts and mending tomes, but I was constantly distracted other matters.”

“I’m sure you were the pride of every member of the temple, a little chaos or no.” She felt her soul warmed by the image of a ‘little storm’ running merry havoc around a temple filled with dedicates and priests.

Another chuckle escaped Maesa, and she appeared wistful. “Nayr-Keth named me, for the temple and for the night on which I was born.” She explained. “ _Ma_ for Mara, and _esa_ for Masser. I was born on the summer solstice, when Masser hangs alone in the sky. It seems silly really, but I think I’ve grown into the name.”

Serana wanted to kiss her, but she didn’t yet dare. So, she watched, listened and waited patiently for the moment when her hesitance abandoned its hold. In the meantime she enjoyed every happy story of childhood mischief that Maesa was willing to tell.

 


	7. An Unbeating, Breathless Heart

“Forgive me,” Serana looked to Maesa with a quip on her lips, her head cocked slightly to the side, “but I’m having trouble matching you to the image of a reckless youth, as charming as it might be.”

“I had my moments. I still do on occasion.” She admitted mysteriously, her eyes twinkling in the starlight with glorious mischief.

Some small change came across her dear face, and she softened into a peculiar melancholy, looking to the dirt road beneath their boots. “You’re right in a sense though. After leaving the chapel I had to change. I had to abandon my wilder ways, I suppose one could call it ‘growing up’ but...” She smiled sadly at some memory that danced wistfully beyond her eyes. “…I do sometimes miss her. That wild reckless child of my early youth. Who snuck street cats into the vestry, and clipped grisly faces into the altar candles.”

They were not that far from the city now. Its grand black walls rose proud atop the rocky hillock near the left most sweep of the snow dusted valley. The domineering bastion arced up to the churning storm clouds, a block of resolute presence, all hard edges chipped by time, sustained on the bitter meal of stubborn pride.

Serana glanced at it and noted that sometimes things that should have changed simply hadn’t. Besides a few new scars, Windhelm, the city of long dead kings, stood as it had in her time. Still it failed to really capture her interest.

No. Her interest had a new devotion, and she walked beside her, hand clasped in hers, fingers long, delicate, criss crossed with callous and scars. Maesa’s gaze was still upon the road, still lost in her own past. Serana gave her hand a gentle squeeze, bringing her gently out of her thoughts. “I like who you are now.”

Maesa looked to her, a cautious fragile smile on her lips. She squeezed Serana’s hand back, and moved to reply, but her attention was caught by the shadow of the nearing city, and the words were swept away on the gentle breeze. A tension stiffened her shoulders, she coiled some pre-emptive action tightly in her chest, whether to fight or flee, Serana could not be certain.

Her fear made Serana protective, and as they drew close to the cobbled thorough fair she moved to stand closer, their shoulders brushing against one another as Maesa paused.

“We step into true Nord territory,” she warned softly under her breath, little plumes of white mist telling of how truly cold the night was becoming. With an apologetic smile the Imperial gently unclasped her hand from Serana’s. “We do not want to draw attention to ourselves.” She explained pulling up the hood of her cloak.

Serana protested within the safety of her own mind that holding hands would surely not bring too much attention, but her aggravations were hushed and Maesa lifted her touch to her face. Tenderly she lifted Serana’s own hood, deft movements delicate and with only the glimmer of hesitancy. She settled the black fabric around her, lingering just for a moment to tuck a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.

“I’ll explain more once we are inside.” Maesa promised. She held Serana’s gaze, cool ghostly grey soothing her bristling tension.

A soft little sigh escaped the vampire. She wanted dearly to take up Maesa’s hand again, she wanted dearly to kiss her, but she restrained herself. Taking as much comfort as she could from their proximity alone as Maesa began to lead them across the cities ancient bridge.

As they walked Serana watched those they passed. At this hour only the cities guards patrolled the cobbled expanse, their fur trimmed armour glittering with forming crystals of ice as the mountains breath brought the promise of a crisp morning frost. From beneath the full faced helmets Serana saw dark glistening eyes follow their every move.

She drew closer to Maesa.

The great gates loomed before them, monoliths of dark wood studded with lumps of wrought metal shaped into stunted spikes, that pointed as one in grim unison to all who stood before the entrance. Another equally edgy guard, clad no differently than his brethren upon the bridge, barred the gateway.

He looked them over slowly. “Arriving a bit late aren’t you?” Came the gruff voice, partly muffled by the metal of his helmet. There was little point in denying the suspicion in his voice, it was plain and obvious, more so than if he’d verbally announced it.

Maesa spoke, Serana noticed that she made sure to keep her hood at just the right angle that it cast deep shadows to conceal her face. “A Dragon attacked the road from Whiterun, we barely made it through alive. We had to make our way through the forest.”

At the mention of a Dragon Serana could taste a sharp tang of fear on the air. The guard stiffened, his posture abandoned all bluster.

“Damn monster!” He cursed under his breath, shifting his weight in a nervous fidget from one foot to the other. Then his concealed gaze was once more locked on Maesa’s cloaked form. “Still, what brings you to the city in the first place?”

For a moment Maesa seemed to hesitate. Serana kept her own head low, though she longed to help, she did not know how. She knew nothing yet of this Skyrim, if she were to say something it was more likely to make matters worse.

The guard shifted a little, he took half a step closer, the casual grip on his sword hilt creaking as his gloved fist held it with growing tension.

Then Maesa spoke, softly, on a whisper loud enough for the guard to hear with some ease, but quiet enough to seem secretive and hesitant. “There are Thalmor agents in Whiterun.”

The guard paused, peering at Maesa, then Serana, though the pique of his interest appeared with the Imperial. “Why should I believe that? You could be spies yourselves for all I know. For the Thalmor or the Empire. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Serana’s first notion that she had truly underestimated the Thalmor began to take hold in her mind, and a slow creeping dread began to steadily pool in the pit of her belly.

There was no hesitancy when Maesa next spoke. “Your Captain. Calder. Send for him if you still doubt us.” Her use of the name was so casual Serana might have been under the impression he had little weight in the city, but on seeing the sudden rigidity that seemed to seize the guard she let herself indulge in a secretive smirk.

“Calder is…” it was his turn to hesitate, only this time Serana was certain it wasn’t for show. “…elsewhere tonight. But you can pass. Keep your head down and your nose out of official business and we’ll have no problems.” With that he stepped aside and let the two cloaked, unnamed women through the gate.

 

* * *

 

 

Books had been Serana’s escape in her youth. They allowed her a glimpse of the world beyond Volkihar walls. They had offered her excitement, insight, and even on occasion a dash of romance that she voraciously devoured. She had read about Windhelm in many of her books. The city of the Kings, the grandest of all Nord settlements.

Before her imprisonment she’d managed to visit it, just the once, under cover of a night much like that they now walked through. She had been equally as disappointed then.

Beyond the tall imposing walls lay squalor and broken buildings. Everywhere she looked she could see structures in desperate need of repair, walls crumbling, pavements pock marked and cracked, dotted with stagnant pools of slush, mud and substances too vile for contemplation. The sight of it all seemed to sap the colour from the world, turning everything to a dark, damp grey.

Hanging from a rickety upright swung a battered sign. ‘Candlehearth Hall’. Serana thought it looked about as far from Nordic architecture as you could be, but considered that perhaps it was simply a later addition to the city, the only relatively new building in sight.

Maesa wasted no time and immediately headed for the ‘Hall’, picking her way deftly around the decay of the street. Serana followed closely, eager to be out of this miasma of apathy that thickened the air. Their progress was brought to an abrupt halt as the silence of the night was shattered.

“Maesa!”

The Imperial visibly cringed as her name echoed and rang off the stony walls. They turned to their right, Maesa lifted her hand in a weak greeting as a tall, young Altmer woman hurriedly approached.

“Good evening Niranye.” Maesa said politely, bobbing her head slightly when the woman was a half dozen steps away. “You’re out late.”

Niranye swept forward and captured the shorter woman in a ferocious embrace. “I could say the same about you.” She gave a short but pleasant enough laugh, stepping back from Maesa so she might give her a detailed once over. “What on Nirn are you doing in Windhelm?”

An all too familiar prickle caught and pulled at the skin between Serana’s brows, burning the flesh beneath her skin. She needed to supress this, lest it cause her constant distraction. This woman was just another friend of Maesa’s, there was no reason to wish her any sort of harm.

Maesa could not contain her warm smile, and consequently laughed prettily once she’d regained solid footing. “Just passing through. A change of scenery was much needed. How have things been here?”

Niranye was soon divulging a goodly amount of news, a little of business and a few bits of local gossip. It wasn’t until the golden skinned mer turned to Serana that the vampire truly took notice.

“And who is _this_?”

The question was delivered without a hint of malice but Serana still tensed none the less at the direct address.

“This is Serana.” Maesa lay her hand upon her upper arm, completely unaware how it made the Nord’s breath catch. “She’s travelling with me for a while.”

Niranye bobbed her head. “A pleasure.”

Serana returned the gesture.

“You’re a Nord. You’ll get along here well.” It seemed a strangely out of place sentence to say. Though in the face of what Maesa had already explained perhaps it was justified.

“Will you take rooms at Candlehearth?” the Altmer asked Maesa.

“Yes, if Elda will have me.”

Niranye brushed aside Maesa’s concerns with a throwaway flick of her hand. “Don’t worry. Your human, and in the company of a ‘true daughter of Skyrim’. She’s playing up her hatred of dunmer at the moment rather than Imperials. Still watch of for Nils. He definitely still hates you.”

Maesa cringed for a second time. “I’ll buy food elsewhere then I think.”

“Probably wise. But I’ve kept you from your beds too long as it is.” Niranye turned from them and waved goodbye over her shoulder. “Stop by sometime and see me before you move on again.”

And she disappeared into the night. And they were left alone once more in the seeping cold of the decaying city.

“Shall we go in?” Maesa asked after a moment, holding her hand out towards the twin heavy set doors and hunched roof. Serana considered the building again. She gave an agreeing nod to Maesa and the pair ascended the slippery wet stairs, entering a fire warmed hall.

It was dark inside, the room was lit by a single greasy lantern resting on an elbow high bar, behind which sat an aging Nord, her dusty blonde hair peppered with streaks of grey, braided and tied away from a slowly aging face.

She’d locked her bright little brown eyes on them as soon as they’d entered, sizing them up as they simultaneously lowered their hoods.

When she saw Maesa’s face a flicker of recognition darted across her expression. “Back again.” She observed, leaning back slightly from the bar as the young woman approached, standing straighter, casting a measuring glare up and down her form. “You want a room, or just a drink?”

This Elda, for that was who Serana assumed it to be, was not exactly rude, but extremely business like. For some reason the clear difference didn’t seem to affect her immediate dislike for the woman.

“Yes. Two rooms if you have them, for a few days.” Maesa seemed unfazed by the atmosphere.

Elda shook her head, “Only got the one room. You and your…” She looked Serana up and down, silently deciding on something with a firm nod of her head. “…friend, will have to share if you both want a bed.”

The look Serana was given was brief. Maesa was asking her, silently with nothing more than the lift of her brow.

Though Serana felt anything but calm about the notion, she gave a simple shrug, hoping fiercely Maesa would understand its meaning. She did not trust herself to speak.

“We’ll take it for two nights.” The Imperial announced extracting the correct money from a small leather pouch and laying it on the scratched surface of the bar. Elda looked at the money, then fetched a key from underneath the counter, laying it down rather than passing it to the woman.

“First on your left down the way.”

“Thankyou.” Maesa said quietly, she made sure to keep a steady eye contact with the old Nord, till finally Elda took the money. With their business concluded Maesa took the key and walked swiftly to the left of the bar, through a narrow passageway leading to short corridor, just as poorly lit.

“Here.” She stopped before a small wooden door and slid the wrought iron key into the lock. “The reception doesn’t usually get any warmer I’m afraid.” She murmured as they entered.

“You’ve been here before.” Serana observed.

“A few times.” She stepped aside and let the Nord enter before closing and locking the door, leaving the key half turned back again to make certain that no one could enter the room from the outside.

It wasn’t very well adorned. It could easily be considered shabby. Serana could never see them being truly comfortable here. It was small, with only the bare essentials in furniture and it reeked of a temporary fix, impossible to settle in.

But it was good to be somewhere indoors, out of the harsh chill that could harm Maesa. Now perhaps they could talk. There seemed much to learn about this new divided populous, and it was as good an excuse as any to listen to Maesa’s stories once again.

“Is it just the war that’s created all these divisions?” Serana asked, shrugging off her heavy cloak and laying it over the one and only chair.

Maesa moved across the room and knelt before a tiny unlit hearth. It was freshly laid with new fuel, but the arrangement appeared wrong, at least to the Imperial’s eye. She set about fixing it.

“No.” She answered, pulling exactingly at the split logs, forming a neat stack, leaving ample gaps for the air to feed the soon to be birthed flame. “It’s been brewing for years, ever since the Oblivion Crisis.”

Another historic event Serana had slept through. She tried to push it from her thoughts. Instead she waited for the woman to elaborate, unfortunately only silence followed.

Maesa seemed intent on the fireplace. She continued to pile the split wood with great care, stacking it in a complex pattern. Once satisfied with the construct, she tucked a piece of burnt rag tentatively beneath the wood. She reached behind her and began to rummage through her pack, looking Serana guessed, for a flint and steel to set alight her creation.

“Here.” The Nord said, coming to kneel beside her. She lit the rag with the tiniest of gestures from her index finger, calling forth her potent magic as easily as she might scratch an itch. The fabric caught at once.

Flames rose steadily devouring the stack, leaping from log to log, sending a strong smoky warmth out into the the room. Serana, pleased with her work, smirked and turned to the woman beside her. The self-satisfied gesture melted from her face like spring snow. They were closer than she’d thought.

With an expression all softness and sweet gratitude, Maesa let a small smile cross her face. It seemed bashful, the warmth of it glowed across Serana’s cheeks, and when Maesa moved just a little closer the vampire felt the world hold its breath.

“Thank you.” She whispered, and then with great tenderness she kissed the vampire’s snow white cheek.

Maesa then stood free of the fireplace, and walked over to the little rickety chair, removing her cloak, and laying it atop of Serana’s. The Nord was left in the somewhat curious task of trying to catch her breath, calm her unbeating heart, and silencing a myriad of swirling thoughts that threatened to rob her of all future incarnations of sanity.

In an attempt to achieve all three, she made her unsteady way to the bed, charging her self to the menial task of removing her boots, her fingers finding the buckles and ties tricky as her mind raced. Eventually her persistence won out and she tucked the discarded footwear beneath the far end of the bed. She sat upon the fur covers, folding her long legs beneath herself, left to sit silently and watch as Maesa began to remove her armour.

“What was the Oblivion Crisis?” she asked, embarrassed by the unusual candour of her own voice, a colourless blush seeping into her chest hotly as Maesa pulled free of her leather cuirass.

The Imperial was quiet when she spoke, deliberate and almost haunted.

“Worshippers of Mehrunes Dagon, calling themselves the Order of the Mythic Dawn, tried to summon their lord so he would inhabit the plane of Nirn. I don’t need to tell you how bad that would have been had they succeeded. In short a Bosmer woman, Nirae, came along and fought against the Mythic Dawn and their Lord. She had help from an order called the Blades, and the bastard son of the last emperor. They defeated the daedra in battle within the heart of the Imperial City, but the emperor’s son died ending that bloodline.”

Maesa was laying out each piece of her armour with great care, making sure not to leave any piece resting crooked or improperly laced. She began the untying of her boots as she explained further.

“The Order of the Mythic Dawn opened many gateways to Oblivion, Nirae closed those she could reach, she apparently drove herself to an early grave doing it. The gates were everywhere though, on every continent. She never managed to reach the Summerset Isles. The devastation there was total. In the chaos the royal family was overthrown and the population was desperate for a solution to their problems. The Thalmor were a fringe political movement then, largely ignored, but somehow they managed to do what no one else could, they closed the gates and ended the crisis on Altmer shores. Suffice to say they rode their success right to the peak of political power and they’ve held on ever since.”

Maesa finished her tale with even greater solemnity, tucking away her boots beside Serana’s.

The Nord began to get an inkling of the game she had stepped into. These were not some radical sideliners, whose presence people tolerated. The Thalmor were players of a game that spanned nations, their reach grasping at the thrones of at least two kingdoms. She felt like a small child playing in the dust between bellowing warriors, each stamping their feet a hairs width from her fingers, she would be broken if she was not alert.

“The bad blood between the Nords and the Dunmer is far more recent.” Maesa continued on. She seated herself on the bed, a little way from Serana, but easy enough to reach. Her deft tanned, fingers worked at the binding tying back her hair, teasing apart the knot. Her dark curls tumbled across her shoulders. “Ulfric was caught by the Thalmor during the civil war. He was tortured, and made to believe during said torture he’d given away vital information that led to the fall of the Imperial City. He returned home traumatised and seeking revenge for his pains. He took out his anger on the nearest population of mer, and made targets of the Dunmer in his hold.”

Serana saw a flash of silver from beneath Maesa’s clothing, just below the hollow of her neck. She’d twisted slightly to run a hand through her freed hair, ruffling the collar of her shirt, scrunching up the fabric just enough to reveal the hint of a necklace, with a heavy pendant at its end.

Serana’s curiosity torn between it and all this new information. She had so much to learn, so much to catch up on. Where to start? How did you learn a whole new world?

“Do you mind?” The younger woman asked, catching Serana quite off guard.

“Pardon?” She replied, certain she had not missed any predefining explanation, though in her still flustered state she could not be too certain.

Maesa lay a hand between them, stretching out the fingers amidst the fur.

“Do you mind sharing a bed?”

The slight hint of a blush crept up Maesa’s neck, and she peered up at Serana from beneath her dark lashes, effortlessly and unknowingly stealing her breath away once more.

She forced herself to smile, hoping to cover her utter befuddlement that seemed to come so easily around Maesa.

“I don’t mind.” She said.

As she said it she felt the curious presence of something new. In the light of Maesa’s embarrassment she felt something strange. A bubbling tickle in the centre of her chest, a playfulness.

With every outward appearance of calm, she lay her own hand over Maesa’s, all the while wearing a holding her gaze with a pleasant, coquettish smile.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

The Imperial’s eyes darted down to Serana’s hand. She flexed her smallest finger minutely.

“I… No… I don’t think so…” She tried to move her hand away, but Serana held it firmly beneath her own. The vampire saw the muscles of her neck swallow. She would not meet her gaze.

“I may be able to arrange for something else.” Maesa reasoned, her quivering supressed beneath a façade of planning. “Unfortunately, that would require speaking to Ulfric.”

The air between them changed at the mention of the man’s name. It dulled, anticipation turning to resignation. Serana’s teasing left her, replaced by concerned curiosity. She released the other woman’s hand and leant back, settling herself comfortably against the head board. There had been talk of this Ulfric in Whiterun. There was doubt as to whether Maesa and he could cohabit within the same city without coming to some sort of violence.

“Why does this man frighten you?”

“He wants an alliance with me.” Maesa said shortly, her eyes glinting with a hint of Nordic stubbornness. “He is a great leader, charismatic and bold. He’s also a short sighted fool, who throws childish tantrums when political matters don’t go his way. He’s so blinded by his hatred of the Thalmor, he can’t see that his little rebellion is playing right into their hands.”

“But why you?” Serana asked, fitting pieces together with little success. “Why does he want an alliance with you?”

Maesa drew further away, both with her body and her words. She was reluctant to answer it seemed, the distance she wished to lay down rolling off her like a rough tide, forcing the Nord back.

“I have… some sway in the politics of the province.” She replied quietly.

Serana knew Maesa well enough, even in the short days of their companionship, that this was an understatement on such a grand scale that it might as well just have been a bare faced lie.

She placed firmly on her brow a look her mother had used on her on numerous occasions, where nothing but the most absolute truth would suffice. With it fixed in place she let her eyes bore into Maesa and pressed her silently to elaborate.

When Maesa met her glare she bore her own conviction as a counter. “I keep my own privacy keenly Serana.” She admitted, hushed and secretive in tone. “I and those close to me purposely spread false rumour and gossip. We draw not only the Thalmor away, but all others who wish things from me that I do not wish to give. Ulfric was unfortunately witness to my identity from the very beginning, and as such has sort in the past to blackmail me with this knowledge.”

It answered little of Serana’s original question, yet at the same time it did seem to reveal a little more of the circumstances of Maesa’s story.

“Tell me. Please.” She begged, trying a method much more her own than her parents. “I can see it hanging over your head like a storm cloud. Trust me with its name.” She reached out and found Maesa’s hand once again, only this time as she held it there was no hint of nervous uncertainty. She sought to comfort her, and to understand.

Maesa soon looked away, her fingers limp and motionless in Serana’s hold.

“A person deserves to be more and less than a title.”

It was delivered with not small amount of melancholy and Serana felt her chest grow tight from its sound.

“I want you to see _me_ , Serana.  Not a figure, or a title. Just _me_. I trust you enough that I want you to know _me_. I hope that that is a far more precious liberty.”

She would speak no more of it that night, and Serana agreed to press her no further. It felt as if a strange formless barrier had been erected between them, invisible and fathomless it truly held no manner with which to restrain them.

Yet, she knew it was there.

Maesa fell asleep first that night, curled over loosely, her face resting in her halo of dark curls. Serana knew she was asleep, for after a moment’s hesitation she reached out and touched her loosely clasped fingers. The absence of reaction made her bolder, and tenderly, as if she were cradling a fluttering moth she brushed the tips of her knuckles across her cheek.

A mumble made her snatch her hand back, though she needn’t have worried. Maesa’s breath fell just as easily as it had before, her dreams making her eyelashes flutter.

She longed to reach out again, but she didn’t wish to wake her. Resigning herself to a fingers width gap between their hands she settled herself beside her mortal and bid the sleeping woman a fond, silent, goodnight.


	8. Words in Prayer

When she awoke she was alone, the room around her silent, deserted, and cold.

After her initial puzzlement she did not panic. Most of Maesa’s belongings were still neatly laid out on the chair. The only items absent were her boots and her cloak. Serana reasoned that the younger woman might have gone to settle matters with Ulfric, whatever matters they might be. Though she was a little irked that she would go and do so without her, she none the less accepted it.

Certain that she was alone in their room and unobserved, she looked to the space on the bed beside her, the covers still rutted and twisted. She splayed her fingers wide and slipped her hand into the depression left, tracing the ghost of a fleeting warmth.

Maesa must only have left recently.

Serana moved her hand higher, to where the pillow had captured the loose shape of her mortal’s face, preserved in the loosely stitched construct. There she ran her fingertips over where Maesa cheek had rested, seeking out the shadow of her presence.

“Murder!”

A cry came from beyond the door, making Serana jolt, the ghost outline on the pillow twisted out of shape by the unconscious clench of her fist. Many voices answered the call, and soon a tumultuous clamour rose up.

She stumbled from the bed and dressed quickly as the thunder of many feet passed outside the door. She tried to catch some measure of the half shouted words. But could hear nothing until the stampede had settled. Then it was Elda’s voice she found, barking in the bellow of a sea captain competing with a storm.

“Who is it boy?” Her voice carried easily through the stone walls.

“Dunno.” The messenger stuttered after a beat of stunned silence. “Didn’t stay around long enough to find out, there was so much blood. Definitely a woman though. She was naked.”

The lesser cousin of panic leapt in Serana’s chest.

She tried to admonished herself. There were no doubt tens of women in the city, why did she think for one moment that it could be…

“Well?” Elda pressed. There was a short pause, then, just as Serana’s hand touched the cold metal of the door knob, the walls were shaken by the fierce Nord’s screech. “WHAT DID SHE LOOK LIKE?”

The stumbling young man tripped and spilled over many half begun sentences, until finally he managed to force out a description, his words becoming crystal clear as Serana pushed the door open. “She had dark hair, and she was shorter than most folks. She’s laid up in the cemetery.”

Serana must have worn her horror on her face, for when Elda turned and caught sight of her she stopped in her tracks, at complete loss for what to say. She clutched the boys shoulder in a vice like grip as he began to speak again, silencing him in all but a whimper.

“She’s not with you?” The suddenly much older Nord uttered quietly. When Serana could not answer, Elda pointed to the door. “The graveyard is to the right of here. Talos protect her soul if it’s her.”

She was out the door, into the icy air before the last syllable left Elda’s lips. She took in little of the day, it was grey, lifeless. It would remain so until she saw the blush of life in Maesa’s cheeks once again. She slipped and slid through the slush and muddy water, curling her fingers tightly around the slick stones of a rocky wall as she rounded its corner at reckless speed.

Off the main street, whose wide expanse they had crossed the night before, lay a long dark space, punctuated invasively by protruding monuments to the long dead. It gave the impression of a mostly neglected place. Avoided where possible, its imaginary borders skirted around by suspicious locals, whose lives had been long separated from the deceased, despite their proximity.

Today it was populated perversely by the breathing, morbidly excited, and loud living.

Serana stopped at the upper dais of the smooth descending stairs, those that linked the house of the dead to the main street.

She need not intrude further.

From that high vantage she saw all she needed to see.

The corpse, at the centre of the babbling crowd, was laid bare upon the frozen lid of a tomb, it’s almost blue limbs splayed wildly, caught in the panic of it’s last moment before death. There at the centre of the chest, between the breasts, was a blush of crimson, the edges of a wide neat cut exposed to the air, the ivory gleam of ribs peeking through the flesh.

Serana turned away from the sight, leaning heavily on the slabs of stone, gaping and gagging for a moment, spit and bile choking her mouth. Were she in the habit of eating, she would probably have vomited. Then, with one forced step after another, she lurched away, eager to leave the body behind.

The body that was not Maesa.

The body of a tall, blonde Nord.

The streets fell away from her, her direction lost quickly, as she wandered blindly.

Was it some cruel trick that the boy had seen a short dark haired woman on the slab?

True that the frame of death could distort a body, make it seem smaller. It was the same with coffins, though that was often linked to unrealistic expectations of the dead, the impact of life strongly lived in a now decaying cadaver. Perhaps the blood had confused the lad, perhaps he had seen its stain and in his panic he had assumed it was hair. Viewed in a glance the mind could fill in many blank spaces.

Her wits came back to her slowly, relief seeping back to her steadily, sharpening her mind, clearing her sight. She spied a lonely alley way, caught between two tightly shuttered buildings, a high wall at the disused nooks far end.

Retreating into the peace it offered, she leant against the leftmost, silent, dwelling and pressed the top of her head back into the brickwork, looking up to the sky, following the drifting clouds. A shaky sigh snaked its way to her lips and she let it escape in a mist-less puff. A hazy sleet began to wet the world. Serana let her mind drift.

An unseasonably warm breeze swept through the narrow streets of the city. Twisting and turning this way and that, wending its way past the residents and travellers alike. It skimmed over tiled apex, and danced across frozen puddle, picking up and carrying the scent of dark waters and ice on its current. It neared Serana’s hiding place, with natural no right to purpose or motive, yet set on a distinct path.

Circumstance alone could have been the principle behind its use as a vehicle for tragedy. But circumstance was not the master of its nature. It’s master was cut from a far more corrupt cloth.

Just as it neared the end of the street it kissed the cheek of a passer-by. A woman, shorter than most, with stormy eyes and dark hair.

On the sink of a breath Serana caught something on the air that made her jolt. Hot, bitter, with a sharp metallic tang.

The draw of it would not be denied.

It led her to the entrance of the alleyway. She froze as the stench rushed her.

Blood.

Rich and heady, the sensation of the scent wrapped it’s seductive grasp around the fleeting vestiges of Serana’s conscious mind.

The street beyond was quiet, the population at the graveyard it seemed. All, except for one lone figure, walking with purpose. The blood was theirs. Invisible to the world, Serana they were drenched in it. A crimson miasma whose coiling tendrils beckoned her closer, called her with wanton passionate cries.

They would pass by her, closely, just enough for her to wrap her arms around, to take hold.

The scent swelled as the luckless being approached, shrouded in a cloak of deep dark blue. An itch irritated her for a moment. She should know what this meant, the colour, the fabric, it should be familiar to her. The thought formed a hollow hole in her clouded mind, but the stench collapsed its walls, burying it beneath the need to satiate her hunger.

She lunged and caught the figure, a woman, by the waist. She pulled back her back, stifling her cry with a palm pressed firmly over her gaping mouth. Then she pushed the mortal into the wall of the dwelling that had moments before been her restful retreat. A sharp cry was uttered by her victim, the hood of their cloak crumpled and fell away with the force of her action.

A tumble of dark hair swept across lightly tanned cheeks.

Her instincts were ground to a halt. Her mouth gaped in abject horror. Her silencing hand fell away.

“Maesa” Serana breathed.

With bleary eyes that shined wetly with tears, the young woman peered up at her, confused, surprised. Her senses no doubt compromised, she actually smiled.

Then a bolt of red shattered Serana’s restraint, the whispers descended.

There on her cheek, a cut the width of a bodkin arrow’s narrowest edge, the skin surrounding it puffy. Fresh, painted vibrant with a streak of sticky blood.

Serana pressed her lips to the it and ran her tongue across the wound. It might have been fresh, but the clotting had already begun, there was little liquid blood to be had. Just a taste. A taste was enough to urge her hunger to a desperation that smothered her being.

Maesa was urgently saying her name, her hands pushing her back, only to be trapped between them as the Nord surged forward with renewed vigour. Somehow she managed to use the weight thrown against her to manoeuvre them both. Serana was aware of all, till the door slammed behind them and the grey light of the wintery sky was shut away.

Using her momentary disorientation, Maesa shoved the woman back fiercely. The movement was awkward and staggeringly reluctant, causing them both to tumble to the wooden floor boards. They landed a little way from each other, giving just enough time for the mortal woman to scramble to her feet, her scuffing boots and ripping cloak catching the attention amber eyes, once warm, now cold.

Serana rose to her feet slowly, turning her head to follow every shaky step Maesa took up the creaking stair. She could feel the ghost of the metallic tang on her tongue.

The phantom was not enough now, a memory had no purpose to her. It was nothing when so much was amply standing a few strides away. Each time her feet echoed the frightened woman’s step it was deliberate, certain, she knew what she wanted. She’d take it.

Maesa’s stumbling retreat met an obstacle, her back met a stone wall. In shock she glanced over her shoulder for a second too long.

Serana drew up sharply, took that second, and leapt the short distance. She caught Maesa’s arm as at the last moment the Imperial managed to dive aside, out of the narrow hallway, into the main dwelling space of the seemingly abandoned house. Serana followed her down as she tripped, wrenching her arm painfully back, pulling her into her body till they were pressed together so tightly Serana could feel the rise and fall of her chest, the terrified hammering of her heart, the heated flush of her skin.

Without a hesitation she found a strong vein in the coppery neck and bit, releasing the blood into her mouth.

Someone screamed.

Then she drank, and the world fell away.

The woman below her fought for only a minute or so. She grew weaker in her arms, gradually each punch and kick lost its potency, each wild flail became a shudder. Her fingers came to rest lightly on Serana’s collar bone, their touch leaving a shimmer of ice on her skin.

She was slowly growing deathly cold.

Somewhere within came the cruellest whisper of her sanity.

As she drank, drawing out the hot thick succour, the whisper grew.

A murmur.

Then a rumble.

Louder and louder.

A cry.

A scream.

A wail.

Until, with an echo that shook her bones, the voice became her own.

Maesa sank away from her, crumpling like wet paper onto the dusty floor, her limbs rolling limply, casting out like sea kelp on the tide, pale and cold.

There was no sound.

There was nothing.

It didn’t transpire in the way the skalds had sung.

Words would not come. She couldn’t utter a sound. She remained quite still, legs bent to either side.

Staring.

Her lips parted the width of a breath.

With the last settling of the body before her, the face tipped limply towards Serana.

It was blank.

The eyes were closed. As were the lips. The cheeks were colourless. She might have been sleeping, had it not been for the expression.

There was none.

No peace, no anger, nor fear. It was as if a novice had attempted to capture a life, but had only been able to sketch the shapes and not the essence.

Grace, tragic beauty, they had no place here.

Bards and poets spouted a serene morbidity to the actions of those in their works. They had heard romanticised tales of loss, few had actually witnessed the flavour of grief of which they were so found of telling.

Those few who had… had no desire to write or sing of something so utterly empty.

This was no Bards tale. This was no song, no poem.

A wordless, formless, scraping bellow that tore gashes in her throat, broke from Serana in a roar.

Clumsily, scratching at clothing and dying skin, she clawed the limp body back into her arms, leaving marks and tears.

She became bestial in her howls.

She beat at the floor, rocking her knees as she cradled the body.

Her mouth drew wide and gulped wildly at the air as her breathing became rushed and frantic. She fell into herself, lowering her head, tucking it into the body. Tears streaking hot burning furrows on her cheeks.

No there was no romanticism to this. How could anybody make such tragic irony beautiful.

No beauty ever existed in death.

She whispered apologies into the dying woman’s ear, leaving traces of her own blood on her cheek.

Then, for the first time, in all her years of life, Serana, daughter of servants to Molag Bal, being of daedric blessing, prayed to beings that turned their backs on the likes of her.

The words were rusty on her tongue. She’d known the names in her youth, she’d read them in passage and heard them on the lips of the dying, but she’d rarely spoken them.

“Akatosh, Dibella, Julianos, Stendarr, Arkay, Zenithar, Mara, Kynareth.” She gasped out the names, bumbling the sounds, speaking them with every shake of her body as she convulsed. The words fell hollow, so she spoke them again. And again. And again.

On and on, saying their names like a mantra, intoning into every syllable her hopes, precious and shattering. “Akatosh, Dibella, Julianos, Stendarr, Arkay, Zenithar, Mara, Kynareth.”

She tried them separately, begging each one in turn. She came to Mara and wept to her, the divine who had shaped so much of Maesa’s life, wishing as only the stricken could. Serana could remember distantly her temple. A haven of smoky incense and chanted prayer, punctuated by the scent of rose petals. She called on the memory, rocking back and forth, her head bowed low.

“Let her live, Mara, goddess of love and promise.” She wept feverishly. “Let her live, send her back to me. Please. Please.” She repeated the word till it became meaningless.

When she stopped, the silence around her was deafening. Nothing stirred to aid in her plight. The world moved just had it had always done, ambivalent and disinterested.

Half uttered moans and whimpers replaced all sense and sound. She found it difficult to breathe.

With every onslaught of reality, she felt herself fraying.

“Don’t leave me alone” she sobbed wretchedly, twisting the fabric of the blood soaked dress tightly in her fists. “Akatosh, Dibella, Julianos, Stendarr, Arkay, Zenithar, Mara, Kynareth. Gods bring her back. Just let her live.”

In the lowest pit of despair, in that numbness, where already too much had been felt, using a part of her she’d long thought destroyed, Serana found she still had the capacity to break and be broken. It seemed she would always find herself a new way of being broken.

The pound of a beat, like thunder, cut through all melodies.

**The scent of lavender, winter gorse and summer rain lit the dust in the air. The abandoned house bore sanctuary to a single touch to the tapestry of time. All became frozen in the fold of a moment. Time had no power, so it retreated solemnly, bowed low before _her_. _She_ whose watcher dwelled in dark waters. _She_ who had whispered a name to two travellers. _She_ who bore the greatest of labours.**

**The rush of satin sweeping over stone, the hiss of sharp gales, the bitter sweetness of a last kiss, these _her_ substance but not _her_ body. Shimmering into a shape, fathomless and formless, came _she_ , hidden, and kept so by fate and histories long woven. **

**Long came the longing, aching deeply in an endless expanse, ever rolling out like a tide, sweeping up and growing in each timeless measure that the separation remained. _She_ swept low. _She_ pressed a feather brush to the brow of the near dead, and there, breathed life. Sweet, precious life.**

**Then _she_ was gone, and time was given back its dominion, though in its supremacy it had to surrender one soul. **

**The first new heartbeat signalled the continuation.**

A heartbeat that Serana caught, calling out.

She wept anew, cradling and kissing the face of the living, the breathing, the impossible woman lain on her lap. Soon guilt would rear its pain, but for now, for that heartbeat and those after that followed the stealing of time, all that she had the ability to feel was joy.

Happily, she drowned in it.


	9. Fear and Control

The metal pan clung to the skin on her hands painfully, as the snow within slowly began to melt. At the centre it was still very much frozen, but around the edge there was gathering just enough water for purpose. Carefully Serana placed the pan on the floor and dipped a cleanly torn rag from her cloak into it. The icy water made her fingers sting but it was less than pointless to react to it further than to merely grit her teeth. Ringing out the excess before she stood from her chair, she reached across the warming body before her and began to dab at the foul stain.

Maesa had been asleep for a while now. She’d barely stirred, even when Serana had moved her to the dusty, thread bare bed that had been forgotten in the corner of the dim house.

The sight of it, her blood, now drew nothing more from Serana than disgust. Her madness and her hunger had disappeared like a sea mist, leaving little trace, only the destruction. The very smell of Maesa’s blood made her sick to her gut.

Steadily she rubbed the drying blood away, revealing a smear of newly blooming crimson as the water temporarily rejuvenated it.

She couldn’t afford to think.

She’d cripple herself if she stopped and considered what had happened. Better to carry on. To not think. Just let her hands guide her. She needed to clean the wound. She needed to let Maesa rest. Then she needed to get them out of this draughty shack. What came after would be up to Maesa. She dared not let herself hope for what came after.

She was so warm when Serana’s fingers brushed her jaw, it was quite unintentional, but a shaken sigh escaped her, pent up, let free if only for a moment. Then she threw herself into the work. Luckily blood from skin came away easily.

The clothing would probably have to be burnt, no amount of scrubbing could remove the stiff, dark stain from the blue cotton.

As she worked, the blood clearing to reveal tanned skin, she realised she could not find the wound. She peered at the spot, moving as close as she trusted herself to be. The place into which she had sunk her teeth, it wasn’t there. She couldn’t see it, even when she’d scrubbed every last residue of the blood away.

She sat back and shook, dropping the rag carelessly onto the floor. There should be a mark. There should be torn flesh, cuts, bruising.

Yet, there was only smooth, unbroken, perfect skin. This wasn’t… this couldn’t…

From her neck, to the sleeping woman’s face and back again. She studied, and watched, wanting and needing some explanation to this.

She was willing, just, to take Maesa’s survival on divine blessing. That notion had made its awkward, yet certain place in her mind, even though it pushed and drove long held resistances dangerously close to the fringes. This? This was something else. More than anything that had happened up till then, this scared her.

Her temptations terrified her.

A hair, a single tiny fragment of her being, wanted to push this. It sought a knife, a blade, a fang, to cut and see if a scar remained, and it disgusted Serana.

She stood sharply from the chair and threw herself far from the bed, colliding with a thump into the stone wall by the stairs. She slumped down its brickwork, sliding till she crumpled onto the floor.

She wasn’t that monster. She didn’t want to hurt Maesa for the curiosity. She didn’t want to cut her and make her bleed just to test her half formed theory.

She didn’t want to hurt Maesa at all. She’d never wanted to hurt…

She began to cry, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“I’m not that monster.” She whispered to herself, not bothering to wipe at her damp cheeks. Her voice broke into a sob, “I’m not my parents.”

A whole new prophecy plagued her mind, one that had been written into the nature of all things, far older than she. A constant, hated notion that took its hold over all indiscriminately. She was formed of their echo, some part of her was her parents, she’d had always been, and would always be her parent’s daughter.

The notion to rise, to run, for her safety as well as Maesa’s, grew in her. It was unwelcome. She wanted almost nothing more than to stay.

The one thing she did want more was to escape time, to erase with a stroke all that had happened that day in the presence of this orphaned house. To run might very well have been the kinder thing to do, for them both, especially for Maesa.

If in nothing else but this however, Serana would remain stubbornly selfish.

 

It was several hours before Maesa awoke.

Serana spent the time slipping further and further into her guilt. Despair was a strange bedfellow but she settled into the familiarity of its presence. She cried until she had no tears left to fall. She hated all that she had done until nothing she could say nothing amidst the bitterness on her tongue. But none of it made any difference.

The Imperial woman woke gradually, murmuring slightly then turning, her breath becoming a little more defined, her movements surer.

Serana watched her from across the room. She was sat, her back against the stones, as far as she could be while still remaining within the confines of the house.

Groggily Maesa opened her haunting grey eyes and she searched for her immediately. When she found her she wordlessly stared, her lips parted as if to speak but uncertain of the words.

Serana mirrored her silence. How could they begin after all that had happened?

“Are you sitting over there because you’re afraid you’ll hurt me again?” Maesa asked quietly.

“Yes.” Serana answered, voice dry after hours of self-inflicted silence.

“And would you? If you had the choice would you ever do that again?”

“No.” She replied. “Never.”

“Were you in control?”

The cowards answer would have been ‘No’. Serana knew it lay ready and eager on the tip of her tongue. ‘No’ would correct everything. She’d be forgiven because the fault would lay elsewhere. But it wouldn’t be right. She’d be lying.

Serana _had_ realised what she’d been doing. She’d been just as excited as terrified when she’d realised it was Maesa. She could have stopped, she should have stopped. She couldn’t bear the weight of such a lie.

“I knew what I was doing.” She admitted, purposefully making her voice cold. “I knew I was killing you.”

When left alone with the persistent voice of guilt and hindsight, actions and thoughts are often misremembered.

She didn’t know what she was hoping to achieve. She didn’t know whether she was trying to goad Maesa into forgiving her or trying to drive her away. She didn’t know, her words were running independently of her heart.

“I’m not dead.” Maesa said firmly, laying quite still, her pale eyes blinking rarely. “When did you last feed Serana, truthfully?”

Serana grimaced both outwardly and inwardly. “I haven’t,” she explained. Gone was the time for easing out the truth. There was no time for gentle births. “I haven’t fed since my mother sealed me in the tomb.”

Silence followed between them. Distantly the murmurings of the city continued and the day drew into dusk.

“How is it you were not overcome before?” The young woman asked after a long, seemingly passive, contemplation. “We have seen blood surely. So why was it mine that triggered such a reaction? Was it merely the passage of time?” She seemed to be pondering aloud rather than truly asking for Serana’s opinion.

If the Nord could glance inside her head at that moment she might have better understood Maesa. The birthing of many ideas, soon to be picked apart and reformed as time crumbled their foundations.

Serana longed to draw nearer, but her trust in herself had been shattered.

She didn’t want to hurt Maesa.

It had been so close to a dire disaster she could not bear the possibility of it happening again.

“There was a mechanism that spilled my blood.” Maesa recalled, her words slow and deliberate as she remembered step by step the actions of the first of many fateful days. She looked down at her right hand, a thin scar stretching the skin that Serana had not noticed before. “It flowed down carved channels to the chamber you were inside. Perhaps it is only my blood because it is the only blood you have consumed since you were woken.”

The fact that Maesa was drawing towards a similar conclusion to the one she had concocted in Whiterun, sat on Maesa’s bed, what felt like weeks ago rather than just a day, comforted Serana in a small sense. They had a hypothesis, but she was uncomfortable pinning the entire attraction of Maesa’s blood purely on simple circumstance.

“How long have I been asleep?” Maesa asked, her gaze flitting back to Serana smoothly.

“A few hours,” she replied. “I couldn’t wake you, you were too weak.”

The Imperial cringed. “With the murder the last thing we need is to draw suspicion towards ourselves, especially not drenched in blood.”

Serana looked down at herself, there were a few flecks of dried blood on her crimson shirt, but she was largely clean. Maesa was not. Her entire left shoulder was drenched, and now her once blue dress had dried a red brown.

Serana was angry. “Why don’t you send me away?” she demanded as the younger woman began to stretch out her limbs, preparing to get out of bed. When she didn’t answer Serana continued. “You should be scared, you should scream and shout. I almost killed you! No. I did kill you. You stopped breathing, you were growing cold. Yet you still talk of an us? You should be scared of me. You should be terrified.”

“Because I don’t understand you I should therefore be terrified?” Maesa eased herself out of the bed and shakily stood free of its support. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes.” Serana answered without hesitation. “You should fear what can kill you.”

Maesa looked disappointed. “I’m not dead Serana. You didn’t kill me, you stopped. Yes I don’t understand why you started, but neither do I understand the strain and torment that your condition entails. A mortal is driven to commit dreadful acts of barbarity when starving, no matter past tendencies or morality. I cannot imagine what a precise and pointed desire so narrow as to only be sated by one substance would do to your mind.”

Ice prickled in Maesa’s gaze when she next spoke.

“And you were starving weren’t you? You hadn’t eaten or drank for that matter in two weeks.”

She hated how sheepish the mortal woman could make her feel, with that withering glare. How incredibly young made her seem, as if she were nothing but a scolded child.

Rather than admit to anything she forced herself to return Maesa’s gaze and told the woman stoically.

“You are infuriating.”

Not even the slightest hint of humour cast its softening qualities over Maesa’s face when she answered.

“No more than you are.”

The air was cool between them as they stubbornly called the other to protest, neither relenting nor conceding their ground.

“Where is my cloak?” Maesa asked frostily.

Serana jabbed her finger towards where it lay, where she had place it, folded neatly on an old chair beside the bed.

The Imperial stood with only the smallest of stumbles, then she donned the cloak swiftly, making certain to cover the bloodstains with the unmarked heavy folds.

The Nord could still smell the blood. It hung thickly in the air, lacing all other scents with its heavy, sickly aroma. They would just have to hope no one else noticed.

She picked herself up off the floor, finding her bones stiff, her joints creaking as she put her weight upon them. The memory of their warm room in Candlehearth Hall offered her some meagre motivation, and she turned to lead the way back out into the street.

“Serana, wait…”

She stopped at her name. Her body refused to move till Maesa released her, her voice a spell and curse muddled together.

The stench of blood became stronger. She knew Maesa had approached her, and that now she was close enough to touch. She feared her touch. She didn’t think she could stand to be touched while she wore the perfume of her own doom so heavily, not while she knew she was the reason for its lingering presence.

Luck granted her a reprieve as Maesa stopped short. She could sense the hesitance, the slight tremble as the air waited anticipating words that were at the tip her tongue.

“We’ll talk later.”

It was disappointing. Serana felt deflated as she watched Maesa move past her and descend the steps to the front door.

She was tempted to demand a now, not later, but she did truly long for their little room. That small space where they had been so safe the day before. Laying side by side soundly. As if the room could make the last few hours disappear. As if it could take away the terrible guilt that Serana felt as she looked at her, turning the depravity ever over and over in her memories.

The Imperial woman carefully lifted the rusted latch and peeked out into the street. From what Serana could see it had passed dusk, the street was quiet and the pale moonlight glistened damply off the snow and slush.

As precisely as she’d opened it, Maesa closed the door again, resting her paled palm against the wood. “It would be better if we were not seen leaving together.” She said quietly. “Wait here for a few minutes then follow me. Alright?”

So the separating began. “Fine.” Serana replied.

Another hesitance followed but it was shorter this time, they both knew that neither would say what the other needed to hear.

Maesa nodded silently then pulled the door fully open and walked out, pushing it closed again behind her.

Serana waited a few moments, then cracked open a gap just wide enough to peer through and watched Maesa’s back as she walked casually down the dimly lit street.

With every step her heart ached, she could barely stop herself running after her. It became worse the moment she turned the corner and disappeared from view. Serana felt the emptiness of the abandoned house creep forward, joining with the emptiness within, drawing her being into itself, into the dark endless space at her core.

She closed the door and rested her forehead against the damp wood, clenching her eyes tightly shut forcing back the sting of new tears.

There came a sudden cry.

Her eyes snapped open. She tore the door aside and ran out into the street. Following the trodden powder of her footsteps, barely a minute old.

She’d heard it. As if the words had been bellowed into her ear. Maesa had screamed her name.

She followed not only the footprints but the stench of blood. It had taken on a whole new quality. It was no longer rank and odorous, it was edged with the tang of life. It was fresh.

She rounded the corner. Back into the main furrow fair of the city with the Inn right at the centre. There she saw it, a great splatter of blood soaking into the snow, with Maesa at its heart, a hand clamped around her shoulder the other clawing at the face of her assailant. A man, a Nord, straddling her waist.

A rage quite unlike any she had known before, possessed Serana utterly. She swept forward and grabbed the man by the neck, heaving him upwards then throwing him to the side, straight into the wall of the Inn. The attacker hit the stones with a crack and thump, landing at an unnatural angle in a great heap of banked snow.

He swiftly lost her interest.

Maesa was writhing and groaning, her limbs curling inwards tightly. Serana knelt at her side and, using the edge of her own cloak, applied pressure to the heavily bleeding fissure in Maesa’s flesh. The woman bit back many cries but did not attempt to push her away.

There were many shouts and calls around them, people had emerged with lanterns from the inn, some of the city guards running from the gates. Serana saw a few of the guards and townsfolk run after the attacker, who’d against all reason been able to stand and flee, but many stayed to gawp and gape at them.

“Don’t just stand there!” Came a booming voice thick with an accent Nords now seemed proficient in.

A grisly man donned in heavy armour, adorned with the same symbols as the guards, strode through the immobilised crowd. He grabbed the nearest of his underlings by the shoulder and pushed the poor man roughly towards the largest structure in the city. “Go get Wuunerth and Jorlief up, quickly!”

The guard ran off sending flurries of snow and melt water out behind him.

“As for the rest of you,” the large man rounded on the crowd. “Citizens get back to your homes and lock your doors. Guards, patrol the streets and track down the cud chewing bastard that did this!”

A fast chaos of movement burst around Serana as the populous obeyed without protest, but Maesa was still in agony, the snow was still turning red.

She did not realise the bear of a man was beside her till she saw his hands reach out and under Maesa.

“Easy woman” he grumbled as Serana jerked them both away, eliciting a sharp yelp from Maesa. “We need to get her to the palace quickly. You can follow behind and try and keep pressure on that wound or you can stay here in the snow but Maesa’s coming with me.”

She had not time to be spiteful or angry, so Serana nodded grimly, reapplying her hold firmly despite a whimper from Maesa. The man swiftly hoisted the Imperial up into his arms and set off at a rolling pace for the palace of kings. Serana had to jog to keep up.

The guard he’d sent ahead was waiting by the impressive double doors and swiftly swung them open to admit their entry. They entered into a grand hall, with high vaulted ceiling and intricate wrought iron designs adorning the otherwise plain glass of many windows. Under better circumstances Serana might have been impressed.

Now, there was little time and even less patience. A confused looking Nord stood at the end of a long table. He wearily looked them over. “Calder what in Talos’ name…” When his bleary eyes found Maesa’s pained face he paled. “Lady Maesa.” He gaped for a few seconds, then he lurched to the side ushering them towards a shadowed alcove and a steep stretch of stone stairs.

“Take her to one of the guest rooms!” The suddenly alert Nord ordered, darting down another corridor. “I must go fetch my Lord.”

Calder muttered a string of profanities but continued on, Serana, hands slick with Maesa’s blood, always at his heels.

They turned down many corridors before finally they burst into a grand bedroom, incomparable to the one the women had shared the previous night.

Rather than lay Maesa on the large bed, Calder laid her out on a long dining table. Before Serana could protest an elderly robed wizard sprang into the room spitting fire and fury.

“Get out of my way!” he snapped pushing them both aside, his hands already aglow with rosy coloured restoration magic. “If the damned woman insists on becoming the Butcher’s next victim she’ll have to do it one someone else’s damn watch.”

Maesa screamed and convulsed as the crudely formed magic forced its way into her torn flesh and pulled it back together.

Serana snatched forward, ready to flay the mage alive for his incompetence, but the bear Calder yanked her back by the shoulder. “He’s a necromancer by trade.” He explained as Serana struggled. “Healing isn’t his usual fair but he’ll save her life, you can be sure about that. His bedside manner is horse shit though.”

If Calder was trying to lighten the mood, he was fighting a losing battle to Maesa’s tearful cries.

When Serana took a moment to look to Calder, she saw humour was far from his mind. She saw tension in his muscled jaw, then she knew all too well the anguish forcing his words.

“Why was I not informed immediately?” Came yet another shout from the hallway.

Calder turned and pointedly moved to block the doorway with his bulk, just in time for the weary Nord from the hall and an entirely new man, finely dressed and presumably the ‘Lord’, to emerge before him.

Serana could only see glimpses of the men beyond the living mountain. The subservient one’s face was turning bright red as the would be bouncer refused to move aside.

“Wuunerth doesn’t need more bodies in the way.” Calder said stoically.

Ignoring his servants protests the Lord, Serana assumed Ulfric, asked “How bad is she Calder?”

Serana wasn’t quite sure of the emotion behind the Jarl’s words, they were muddied.

Calder’s were obvious in comparison. “Bad. She’s lucky her friend was there to get the bastard off her, doubt he would have stopped short of skinning her alive.”

A final pained cry from Maesa tore Serana’s attention away from the men.

Wuunerth was finishing his hasty job, wiping swept from his wrinkled brow and stepping back from the blood soaked table. Serana darted forward, dodging past the mage.

Maesa was panting hard, her eyes were slackly closed, her brow glistening and unnaturally pale. Peering at the shoulder Serana saw the poorly mended fissure. It had stopped bleeding and much of the inner working of the muscle seemed correctly attached, but the upper flesh was a mess. She would have a horrific scar.

“Woman!” Wuunerth barked.

It took Serana a moment to realise he meant her.

“Get her a pillow from the bed, poor wretch might as well sleep a scrap of it off whilst you clean her up.”

Incapable of thinking, Serana complied.

Calder stepped aside from the door and finally admitted the two men into the room.

“She’ll be delirious and unfit for politics, so hold off on the posturing. “The boisterous wizard ordered his Jarl as he headed out. “But she’ll recover. It’ll take a few weeks, but she’ll live, or I’ll raise her myself.” With the final threat looming over them all the bizarre mage left.

Serana threaded her fingers through Maesa’s dark hair, lifting her head carefully to slip the pillow she’d retrieved underneath.

Maesa mouth moved to shape a ‘Thank you’. She lifted a pale hand sightlessly and Serana moved to obey at once, stepping round to her side and cradling the grip in her own, as preciously as she would a fragile flower.

Ulfric stood on the across from her and cleared his throat. Weakly Maesa shifted her head towards him and opened her eyes.

“Your timing and manner of entrance is unexpected as always my lady.” He murmured, a smirk, that immediately unnerved Serana, playing across his lips.

Maesa had not the strength to smile back. “I didn’t plan to enter at all this time.” Her voice was quiet and scratchy.

“I’ll send some of the palace women up with hot water and clean clothes so they can bathe and dress you, then you can sleep and rest.” The Jarl said smoothly already glancing at his underling to make his orders reality.

“Serana can help me wash.” Maesa croaked. “But the warm water would be a blessing.”

Ulfric’s eyes clouded as he acknowledged the Nord woman for the first time, turning the full force of his attention to her.

“Will she be staying here as well?” he asked, outwardly nothing but polite, inwardly Serana felt the calculation in his eyes.

“Yes.” Maesa said simply, attempting to nod her head only to cringe at the effort.

“As you wish.” The guarded man said, sizing up Serana one last time before giving his consent to the hovering attendant at his elbow. “I will see you tomorrow when you are rested.” He announced. Then he bowed stiffly, then he left, taking Calder and Jorlief with him, closing the heavy wooden door.

Serana waited a few moments, holding her breath, unsure if they were truly gone. Finally, in a flood of emotion, she bent low resting her forehead on Maesa’s stomach and let a few silent tears fall.


	10. Proof and Promises

Fingertips, smooth and dry, streamed in a sluggishly silken flow down her back, resting heavily with cool pressure along the ridges of her spine. Serana raked in her silent sob, sucking in the air in a harsh gasp. Using the ruined sleeve of her shirt she scrubbed away her tears, pulling away from the haven of Maesa’s warm body.

Glassy and glistening, Maesa’s eyes slid open and shut. Barely clinging onto her conscious thoughts. Serana could see the ebb and flow of her exhaustion roll out and in, a gentle tide that would soon sweep her into deep, dreamless sleep.

“My darling.” Serana soothed, caressing Maesa’s drawn face as she felt the woman’s touch slip slightly, becoming slack. “Don’t sleep just yet, you need to wash first.”

Maesa peered up at her, heavy half-lids arced over a wispy smile. “I’ll try.” She promised.

A frown, barely a murmur of her muscles, crossed her dear face. Her fingertips drew in a whispering meander from her back to Serana’s cheek, where the older woman’s best efforts had not managed to completely dry the trail of her tears.

“It’s alright now Serana.” She soothed, skimming her thumb across the damp curve of her cheek.

Serana took her hand from her face, and tenderly pulled the palm to her lips. She kissed the skin just long enough to leave a blush of tingling warmth, hidden where no one would see.

She turned the woman’s fingers inwards to cover her kiss. They would soon be interrupted by the servants, laden low with the bath Ulfric had demanded. She would not show weakness in front of the Jarl, she would not show him where he could hurt her.

Serana caught once again the weariness in the other woman’s eyes. In an attempt to keep her there, awake, she turned her efforts to humour.

“Calder was right, that mage who tended you was a little lacking in his bedside manners.” She smiled, though her expression soured as she glanced at the sticky wound.

“Wuunerth means well.” Maesa chuckled. It was a dry, rasping sound that made Serana wince. “He’s never been a much of a mage for the arts of Restoration.”

“I can see that.” She observed, glimpsing the twitch of exposed muscle with the open gash. She was alive, that mattered more. Yet she could not help some small bitterness rise in her at the crudeness of it. Distantly she wondered if Maesa would be able to draw her bow again.

“I can mend it.” Maesa interrupted her thoughts, the weakness in her voice taking almost all assurance from her words. She looked to her own shoulder and grimaced as her body twisted. “I can mend it in the morning.”

A business like knock from the door alerted both women to the arrival of the bath. Serana gave Maesa’s hand a final squeeze before parting from her briefly, walking across the room, and opening the small heavy door.

Three servants, dressed well, if plainly, stood there, the two men bearing between them a large metal tub. She stepped aside to allow them to carry the vessel into the room. The woman accompanying them brought a small basket.

It took a few trips for the servants to fill the tub, hauling up from the kitchens no doubt, pitcher after pitcher of steaming water. Once it was filled they departed respectfully, the female staying just outside the door to wait for Serana to summon them to remove everything when they were done.

With the door firmly closed and barred, Serana turned her attentions to the contents of the basket. In several neatly folded layers, separated by crisp white linen, lay clothing and bathing supplies, bottles and tonics, along with two wash cloths. The Jarl seemed to have thought of everything.

Serana worried, her nerves itching slightly with the realisation that such supplies were so readily available in what had so far proved to be a most unlikely of settings. Ulfric did not seem the sort to preen, and there had been no sight of any women within the palace, bar the servants. Though on reflection their entrance had been somewhat rushed.

She let the suspicions sink into the depths of her mind. She had another task to attempt before she had time to theorise and concoct conspiracies.

“If I help you, can you sit?” She asked attentively of the still prone woman, walking back across to her, catching sight of the wound once more, its prominence pulsating defiantly.

Maesa glanced back to it, narrowing her eyes, wetting her lips and gritting her teeth. “I’m not sure. Let’s try.”

Serana bent low over her. There was a slight tremble in the younger woman as their bodies drew close. Serana slid her hands around her, weaving her fingers around the tensed muscles, over the warm skin.

To hold her close, to embrace her like this…

She could not afford to let her thoughts free for the moment.

With a moment’s hesitation Maesa hooked her uninjured arm up behind the older woman’s neck, her fingers spread flat on the plain of her back, the warm pressure of the contact causing her heat to soak into Serana’s bones.

“Are you ready?” Serana asked, her pale lips close to Maesa’s ear, their cheeks brushing lightly.

Maesa gave her accent.

With the greatest of care affordable to her within the circumstance of the moment, Serana began to lift. Maesa could do little more than hang on and be held as the freshly blooded vampire eased her up. Her body was solid, warm, real. It pressed against her own as tenderly, Serana slid her off the table, standing her against its supportive solidity.

She did not let her go. She would not let her fall.

A sheen of sweat glistened upon Maesa’s face. The pale pink swell of her lips parted a slither to take in deeper breaths. There was pain in her face. New pain. Fresh pain. Serana immediately wished to stop.

The ever-present rancid smell of the blood and gore reminded her she couldn’t.

Instead she urged the depleted woman to lean against her, her trembling frame slumped forward, forehead resting within the arch of her shoulder blade.

The undressing process was neither dignified nor arousing. There was a time and place to address such niceties, and that was stolen from them both, for the moment, by exhaustion and injury.

Once finished, the last of her ruined clothing falling to the flagstones, Serana encircled the now naked woman in her arms. She held the fading ghost of Maesa’s own warmth within her veins. The Imperials blood alive and nourishing her. For a brief time she was warm enough to provide some small comfort in the chill of the deep night.

“Can you walk?” she asked against the tight skin of Maesa’s neck.

She felt her give the smallest shake of her head. It seemed she had been drained of energy to talk.

Serana scooped up her weakening frame, one arm beneath the fold of her legs, the other around the curve of her back. She felt lighter now, more a being of paper, her limbs lolling like that of a doll.

Taking each step slowly, conscious always of the risk of further injury should her movements judder or shake, Serana carried her over to the bath. It was a haven of steam, the tendrils weaving around her toes and fingers. Warm, inviting. She knelt at its edge, lowering Maesa carefully into the waters waiting embrace.

Maesa swayed in the water, her head hung low as the prop of Serana’s shoulder moved away.

“Stay awake my darling.” She pleaded again.

The poor woman tried. The effort of it pulled at Serana’s chest. Maesa tried to place her uninjured hand on the base of the bath, seeking to steady herself. Within a breath its strength collapsed, and it was only for Serana’s quick reactions that Maesa did not fall bodily against the hard metal.

Maesa’s smoky gaze found her with great difficulty, her mouth only managing a limp twitch, mistakable for a small smile.

“I’m so tired.” She breathed, her words shifting the rising coils of steam. “I’m sorry.”

This wasn’t going to work. There was no chance she could hold Maesa steady and wash her if she could not keep her own body upright. And it would only get worse not better.

A bubble of fear, of nerves broiled in her chest. She knew was she must do. It was all she could think of to do. The practice of it make her soul wince. It wasn’t fair, to either of them, too be forced into something like this.

Something so… intimate.  

Leaning right over the side of the tub Serana reached to Maesa’s jaw, catching the firm angle of it with her fingers. She drew her eyes towards her own, at once gaining the woman’s entire remaining attention.

“Hold onto the edge of the tub.” She ordered.

She was not used to giving orders, and the words fell from her too harshly.

Seeing the confusion in Maesa’s troubled face, she softened her hold, turning instead to caress her jaw with the gentle curve of her finger tips.

“Just for a while my darling.” She promised softly. “Just whilst I change.”

After a moment Maesa nodded languidly. With Serana’s help she moved her uninjured hand to the lip of the tub, and gripped it, tightly, her knuckles bleaching with the effort.

Serana stripped with haste, not caring, or at least not having time to care for her own modesty.

She stepped gingerly into the steaming waters behind Maesa, her curled frame hunched forward, towards the edge she was focused on holding. Serana sat, her legs slipping around, the blush of her inner thigh touching Maesa’s hips.

The younger woman did not react to her presence at first. Not until Serana drew her back, the curve of her spine coming to rest against her chest.

“I’m here.” She whispered as Maesa turned slightly, her muscles tense, uneasy, panicked.

Soothingly, she rubbed her hands up her arms, rivulets of water caressing their skin. She was careful to avoid the wound. Slowly, ever so slowly, like the melting of spring snow, Maesa relaxed in her arms.

“I’ll always be here.”

Maesa melted back into her embrace.

An inner heat, not from the water, nor from the precious mortal, stirred within Serana’s belly. The tongues of this ghostly pyre licked and crept across her body, weaving around every rib, catching a small ember in every hair.

She stole a slow deep breath, hoping it would steady her. If her heart were capable, it would be pounding. If she had a pulse, it would be rising to the surface of her warming skin, joining with Maesa’s. Mingling, entwining. Till neither could tell where the other ended and they began.

She washed Maesa and the blood trickled away. It stained the water a rosy-red. Behind it their skin was left smelling sweetly of the soaps and lotions, perfumed with rings of supple scent, that curled hypnotically into Serana senses.

She did her best to wash them both. To clean away all the sins of the last few terrible hours. To leave only the glimpse of a memory, soon to fade away like the steam.

Cleansed, the older woman took up the younger in a thick embrace and lifted her from the muddied water. She towelled her down, shrouded her sweet scented body in a haven of a snowy cotton night gown, and warmed her with a lingering embrace as she tucked her beneath the blankets and furs of the deep, wide bed.

The servant that had waited beyond the door, was stooped, half-asleep on her feet.

Once roused she fetched the other two and together they removed the dirtied water, the remnants of the bathing things, their dirtied clothes, and the stained table. Only one dared pause in their tasks, and only once. Their eyes had been caught, and then mesmerised by Maesa’s dark curls swept back across the cream white pillows. Serana fixed their attentions with a glare and they hurried out.

Bolted and locked away, the world retreated from their haven.

Serana padded her way across to the bed, lowering the lanterns light, casting the room in the sole honeyed glow of the flickering fire place.

She lay low in the folds of fur and cloth. At once Serana let her eyelids shut, she was so tired. She found contentment in listening to the steady easing of Maesa’s calmed breaths.

Cautiously she reached out, her fingers creeping across the space between them, pushing fabric aside till she could once more feel the warmth skin. She ached to feel its solidity, it’s warmth. She wanted nothing more than to gather Maesa in her arms, and sleep with her slumbering soundly against her chest. But she would make do with just a touch, a brush, an assurance that she was still there, in the dark.

Sernan almost withdrew when she felt Maesa shift. But another set of fingers seeking her closed around her wrist, halting her retreat. The touch came to rest, the fingers laying lightly over Serana’s absent pulse.

When she dared to peek between her lashes Serana saw the murky outline of Maesa’s beautiful face in the low light. She could see the glisten of her eyes. Watching her, waiting for something.  

“Sleep now my darling.” Serana soothed breathlessly, swallowed up by the thought of her gaze.

But Maesa did not close her eyes. She remained still, waiting.

When Serana said no more she weakly tugged at her wrist, urging Serana closer.

Only when Serana’s ear was a breath from her mouth did Maesa whisper her fears.

“Promise me you’ll stay.”

Serana swallowed, throat dry, eyes scratchy and sore from a day of tears. She eased herself back a little ways, so that they could both lay comfortably.

“I promise.” She said, meaning every word. “I couldn’t leave if I tried. You have my heart.”

Silently, softly, Maesa fell into sleep, surrendering finally to the tide that carried her off to distant shores.

Serana would follow shortly. Once she had taken in every aspect of this precious moment.

It was a gift. This quiet. Peace came so rarely.

* * *

 

_“Why did you help me?” Serana asked, sipping the pale wine between her red lips, tilting the ringing cup smoothly._

_Beside her, nestled amongst pillows grey of silk, Maesa traced the veins of her arm with a listless finger._

_“You were lost my love.” She explained, her nail grazing the sensitive skin, leaving naught but a shiver. “I saw it in your eyes, streaming in the dim-light of the crypt, like a new born. I could not do anything else.”_

_Serana placed her goblet atop the low table beside them. Her crimson gown whispered as her fingers caught and captured her lover’s restless hand._

_“What of after?” She asked touching her lips to each of her fingers in turn, leaving only a blush behind her._

_“You never stopped.” Maesa continued laying back with a sigh, amongst their hoard of finery. “Not when we reached your father. Not when you came back to me in Whiterun. Not even when you kissed me for the first time. You always seemed so lost. So fragile.”_

_At the mention of that distant kiss the older woman obeyed, brushing her painted lips across her languishing lady._

_“I never wanted to leave you there, I hated it. Every step that took me from you that first time, it tore at my soul.”_

_Serana shushed her, lying beside her. “You are here now. We are together. Not even that ‘Lord’ could take you from me.”_

_Maesa surrendered to her as Serana lifted her lips to meet her mouth. Caught up and carried in the bliss of each other, the world beyond them crumbled into a dreary haze. All of colour, all of life, all of love could be found in each other’s arms. They need want for nothing more than each other._

* * *

 

Serana looked out across the many dishes. Steaming bowls of terracotta, laden with hot porridge, swirls of honey breaking the pebbled surface. Swathes of cold meats, set out in fans of cooked flesh on a wide platter. Shining apples taken fresh from the palace stores. Small loaves still aglow from the ovens heat.

In the face of all this food, the perversity of its grandeur, Serana had never felt less hungry in all her life. How were two people supposed to eat such a feast. Surely even the most glutinous of house guests could barely manage a quarter of what lay before her, even then at a great push.

Perhaps Ulfric meant to show off the bounties of his household and wider province. If that was his aim, her feelings would leave him greatly disappointed.

She drew away from the table, turning her attentions away from the food, cast her gaze to the window, and then out into the pale grey light of the early morning, the sky already dusted with thick, fluffy snowflakes.

She shouldn’t bear unfounded prejudices against the man or his motivations. In her own mind she’d already labelled him the villain. Yet she’d barely heard him speak two words to her, and what’s more he had freely given Maesa shelter in his palace.

Her thoughts turned to all that Maesa had told her about Ulfric and her good graces soured a touch. Gracious host or not she would have to keep an eye on the Lordling.  

Having made her way over to the window she sighed and leant her forehead against the icy glass, relishing its predictable chill grimly.

That said, of course _he_ would also be keeping a close eye on _her_. She’d seen the first hint of it last night when he’d looked at Serana. He was weighing her up, her use, her threat.

Yes.

_He_ would be watching closely.

He, and all of his advisors, servants, and possibly subjects. Maesa was something to be prized, loath as Serana was to say it. She was not naïve enough to miss the meaning of the ‘alliance’ the young woman had mentioned.

If her father had taught her anything useful he’d taught her something of the delicate dance of politics. And in politics the best and most lasting form of ‘alliance’ was marriage.

The word thundered around within her mind forming a dull ache as it echoed there. Ulfric may be seeking to marry Maesa. Probably not to himself. Not with the problematic relations between the races that seemed to thread through everything in these strange times. No, it was more likely that he’d marry her to someone in his court, or close relations, if he had any.

In this game the most powerful piece to be bartered was Ulfric himself. Maesa would have to wield a truly remarkable amount of influence to tempt the ‘future king’ of the ‘true sons and daughters of Skyrim’ into wedded bliss.

She softly thumped her head against the moulded glass, closing her eyes tightly. There was a tugging within the cavity of her chest. Between her breasts, where her heart had once been. With every unspoken syllable of a possible future where Maesa was taken away from her, something within her tightened. It grew tighter and tighter till it was so taut Serana felt breathless. Tension, fear, terror.

She lifted herself from the glass and stood straight.

It would not happen.

Silently she padded her way across the room to the bed, her route meandering and hesitant though she didn’t really understand why. She pulled her thin shawl around her shoulders tighter, not for the warmth that she could not feel, but the memory of the comfort such an action had brought her in the past.

She hesitated a moment, then knelt beside the bed, her amber eyes watching its occupant.

She was still asleep. Her eyelids fluttering with the untold happenings of her dreams.

A smile crept, quite unbidden, across Serana’s lips.

Maesa’s hair was a mess. Curls and locks twisted and tumbled thickly, thrown to all angles during the night. She’d never woken before her, never seen her in her morning chaos, clothes twisted and rucked, hair unmanaged, limbs curled loosely as if in memory of infancy, tucked in the cradle of careless sleep.

Serana lay her fingers atop the soft curl of Maesa’s, weaving them together delicately as they rested upon the pillows beside her cheek. The renewed chill of her skin woke the younger woman slowly. Serana eased her along, brushing her thumb over the bony peaks of her knuckles.

Maesa blinked a few times slipping reluctantly away from her dreams, her eyes finding and then coming to rest upon Serana’s face. She smiled, and she was beautiful.

“Good morning.” She breathed, the dregs of sleep making her just a little raspy.

“Good morning.” Serana felt her lips reflect her sleepy smile. “How do you feel?”

The Imperial squeezed Serana’s fingers lightly. She seemed curiously pensive for a moment, looking across Serana’s face, searching for something.

“So, it really happened. All of it.” She whispered faintly. “It wasn’t a dream.”

How dearly Serana wished it was. “No my dear.” She replied solemnly. “None of it was.”

Her eyes faltered in their calm gaze for a moment, the misty irises dilating. “The murder. The Butcher. Wuunerth. Ulfric… You…” with good cause she did not finish her summary of the day’s events, though it was clear from her troubled expression that she remembered.

Serana nodded, knowing immediately of what she dared not speak. There were many reasons not to mention it again. Beyond her own desires to erase the event, they could no longer be certain of who was listening.  They were in the Jarl’s palace. If anywhere was likely to be well monitored, it was here.

“Yes. Even that.” Serana confirmed, looking away for a moment, before forcing herself to look back.

Maesa lay back deeper in the comfort of the bed, closing her eyes tightly for a long moment.

A dry laugh escaped her in a short bark.

“What a day to have lived through.” She sighed.

“You’re lucky to have lived through it at all.” Serana’s solemnity drew Maesa’s gaze to her again, but before the woman could speak Serana cut her off.

“You could have died.” She thrust the words forward, pressing with all her conviction that simple truth.

_‘You did die.’_ She added silently.

She took up Maesa’s hand, already clasped within one of her own, and held it firmly to her chest with both, her fingers trembling. “Prove to me that your taking that seriously. Prove to me you understand what happened yesterday. What could still happen.”

The stones beneath her bare legs were growing uncomfortably cold. She’d prefer to be sat upon the bed. Serana would happily take up the opportunity to be within it again. Lying beside Maesa, holding her, savouring her warmth.

Yet where she now was, knelt upon the floor, their heads level with one another, their eyes meeting neatly, was precisely where she needed to be.

Maesa had seldom portrayed anxiousness, Serana could recount only a few instances. She’d seemed to be able overwhelmingly to be consistently calm. Even in the aftermath of Serana’s attack.

Yet, now a small worry was rattling her nerve. Serana could see it there amongst the lines of her brow, her face trembling almost imperceptibly.

“I know what happened.” She whispered a tremble to her gentle voice. “I understand. I understood it yesterday. But I…” She hesitated, once more squeezing Serana’s hands that remained clasped so tightly around her own. “…I cannot send you away Serana.”

She looked so small, so fragile amidst the coverlets of their bed. The bed they had shared. When Serana had awoken Maesa had been curled into her body, her face pressed up against the swell of Serana’s breast. She’d protested, murmuring in her sleep when she’d moved away, reaching out for her limply, seeking the ghost of Serana’s warmth.  

Serana took in a deep shaking breath, and with every syllable she next spoke she felt her mouth grow dry. “When it happened, when you were… I prayed, Maesa. I begged the Nine to bring you back. I haven’t… prayed for centuries.” She pulled Maesa’s hand to her face, touched the smooth skin to her quivering lips. “I cannot lose you. Not again. I would break.”

Maesa looked at her, so sadly, so softly. “I may die tomorrow.” She said. “I might die at any moment from any of a thousand different things Serana. I am never truly safe. Neither of us are. We are both in constant danger for our lives. But…” She slid her hand out of Serana’s hold and with the utmost tenderness, cradled her cheek against her palm. “I would lose you if I sent you away. And you would lose me.”

Sadness and joy mixed so potently within Serana, tumbled and roiled, battling for some form of dominance, that she could not speak. She could only be. Knelt on the cold floor. Lost, alone, and yet not, trapped between the very real danger that she would lose everything if she stayed, and the certainty that she would lose Maesa if she left.

When the younger woman spoke again it was with conviction, a quiet, certain strength that made her every word potent. “I will find a way. I promise I will find a way. Until then, please, stay with me?”

Saturated with growing fondness that was already far more than such a simple word could adequately describe, Serana rocked herself forward on her knees, and pressed a long, lingering kiss to Maesa’s forehead.

Though doubt licked cruelly at the edges of her mind she knew she could do nothing but promise what she had already promised in the cool quiet of the night. Her cool lips brushing against Maesa’s skin she murmured “I promise.”

“How is your shoulder?” She asked, attempting to soothe her quiet worries as she withdrew. “Have you tried moving it yet?”

Maesa’s anticipation of the pain drew a tight, premature grimace across her face, her eyes flitting down to the offending appendage a few times between seeking assurance of necessity from Serana. She drew in a shaky breath, and hesitantly, tried to lift her injured arm from where it lay.

She got no further than a breath from the mattress before a sheen of fine sweat had soaked her brow, and a bitten back whimper murmured from behind her clamped teeth, the limb came back to rest limply.

“Damn it!” Maesa cursed softly, wiping aside her perspiration with her uninhibited hand. “Damn it all.”

Serana gathered her shawl from her shoulders, then she pressed in carefully to Maesa’s forehead and cheeks. “It’s alright.” She soothed. “It’s only been a night. I didn’t expect you to be capable of throwing a punch at somebody.” Her attempt at humour, weak as it was, solicited a short supressed chuckle and a half smile. Serana took it as a good sign. “Besides, as you said last night, Wuunerth’s Restoration skills could do with a little polish.”

This coaxed a full smile.

Then, it faltered, and disappeared. In its place Serana saw Maesa stare, her eyes as round and full as the paler moon. Following the direction Serana’s breath caught.

The removal of her shawl had caused the light cotton of her nightdress to quite curiously slip aside, revealing beneath its snow white fabric the milky alabaster of her skin as it swept across the curve of her left shoulder.

It was only now, as Maesa reached up to touch her, her fingers curled into supple, tentative arcs, that Serana appreciated just how pale she was in comparison to her. How her skin was like ivory, how Maesa’s was like rose tinted gold.

She was frozen in place, the neat bundle of her shawl resting beside Maesa’s head, clutched tightly in her hand. She dared not watch the tilting ascent of the fingers, their arduous climb through the thick, still air. She would know when they had reached their peak, she would know when Maesa touched her.

Instead she focused herself upon the anticipation of the moment and watched Maesa. Her smoky pale eyes, lidded low, bordered in thick lashes, her lips ever so slightly parted, the coil of a held breath just beneath the curve. Paper dry, her own breath came slow as her tongue grew large in her mouth, smothering all words. Then she felt it. The first prickle of unrequired explorative touch.

She traced pinpoint stars, those rosy-gold fingers, across the sensitive skin of her shoulder. She wove the pattern into a caress. There was a silent agreement, an understanding, passed between them.

In their want, their affection, their desires, they were not alone. They had the best of company, they had each other.

An agitated, terse tapping came from the door. Maesa’s caress fell away like broken glass.

Serana vowed silently to kill whoever was beyond the door.


	11. A Word on Court Politics

In truth the knocking was quite sedate. Yet as the sound crossed the room to them, it pushed into Serana’s mind like a blunted nail. She wanted to make them leave, to bar the door and stop all who would enter.

“Shall I let them in?” she asked, twisting her words to softness despite her ire. She was not a child. Sometimes you simply couldn’t lock the world out.

The line of Maesa’s lips became thin and rigid as she considered the door.

Serana watched the shimmer of the room in her eyes, considering how the absence of colour made within them a bizarre reflection, a glass filled with molten silver.

“We can’t hide from them forever.” The Imperial reasoned. Twisting her capable arm up behind her to clasp the sturdy head board, she pulled her body up the bank of pillows a little further, seeking to sit rather than lay.

“Please, let them in.” She sighed.

When Serana attempted to help her she was shooed away good humouredly, and instead she stood. The sweet chill of the morning air swept around her legs and across her bared shoulder. It didn’t seem so bad, the cold, not when _she_ was there. Not now.

Serana pulled her nightgown back to modesty and wrapped the woollen shawl back around her shoulders. Slowly, reluctantly, she dragged her feet to the door.

She opened it the breadth of her hand, pausing to peer out into the torch bathed hallway. A familiar pair of flitting eyes quickly assessed the cut of her face through the gap, and a courteous little smile acknowledged her.

“Lady Serana,” the servant from the previous night’s chaos greeted her, Jorlief was it? The title caused icy finger tips to trace Serana’s neck. She hoped she hid her shiver well. “Is my Lady Maesa available to see me?”

She nodded. Servants it seemed had not changed during her slumber, always polite but always picking around the edges with precise scouting, looking for something useful.

She let the man in and closed the door. The middling Nord made his way directly to the foot of the bed. He stopped beside it, near where Maesa’s feet made little bumps in the covers, then bending almost low enough that his thinning grey hair tickled the floor, he greeted her with practised pomp.  

“Good morning my Lady.” He intoned happily. “How are you feeling today?”

“I am well Jorlief, if a little tired.” Maesa’s cordial manner returned as she spoke, she fitted smoothly into the formal style. “Thank you for your assistance last night.” She was smiling, but it was forced. The mask like quality of it all was so obvious and so familiar to Serana. Unpleasantly, it reminded her of home.

Silently Serana walked back across to the window and began to soak herself in the snow light. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel the purity of natural light. It seemed Maesa’s blood negated its usual discomfort. Another curiosity to affix to her nature.

“That is good my Lady, but you give me far too much credit. Truly it was Calder, and your Lady Serana, who own the greatest share of our gratitude for your survival.”

The second address of ‘Lady’ had a far duller effect. Seeking mental distance from the conversation, Serana began to trace snowflakes.

“Where is the Captain?” Maesa asked.

Flakes fluttered beyond the thick glass, distorted into stretched and squashed shimmers as they fell.

It was a noticeable moment before anyone in the room spoke next, and when the servant finally did Serana could hear the hesitance in Jorlief’s voice, the anxious shuffle of his shifting feet.

“He is… uh… predisposed my Lady. Official business I’m afraid. I shall send him up to visit you when he returns.”

The old man was hiding something for certain. He was far too agitated, his façade was cracking, his words over spilling with good cheer. This was the second time a member of the city had so aptly avoided telling of where the Captain was.

Did Calder have some distasteful hobby? Was he often engaged in cagy or unsightly business for the Jarl? Somehow the man Serana had met the night before did not really seem capable of stealth or subtlety.

Jorlief swiftly changed the topic. “My Lord would gladly appreciate the opportunity to visit you, my Lady. Are you feeling well enough to receive him?”

At the mention of Ulfric Serana turned back to the room, an immediate and sudden itch burning beneath the tight skin between her eyes.

From where she stood she could see naught but the back of Maesa’s head, the dark locks sucking in all surrounding light. She had inclined it forwards a fraction. “I believe I will be quite recovered enough come this evening, if of course that suits my Lord.” Tight politeness as always.

Jorlief’s slick smile grew wide and he swept low again, dangerously low for a man of his developed years. “Excellent!” He exclaimed. “I will inform my Lord and have one of your dresses brought up for you.”

“Thank you Jorlief, but might I ask you bring some clothing for Serana as well? I would be happy to reimburse the cost.” Maesa’s immediate concern on her behalf warmed the vampire, but her sudden observation dulled such warmth.

“Of course my Lady. I will leave you to your breakfast now.” The old Nord bowed himself out of the room and closed the door with well-practised ease.

Serana padded her way back over to the bed, her bare feet sticking ever so slightly to the icy floor.

Maesa was staring at the door. Taken up in a curious frown, her brows tilted slightly down, her eyes glinting in the mix of amber firelight and the reflection of the pale snow.

More than anything, Serana wanted to ask about the dresses. Why did Maesa have dresses here? Was she such a frequent visitor that such things were standard fair?

As much as she wanted to, she could not bring herself to ask along such an intrusive line. A question that so easily could seem accusatory.

Instead she asked “Are you alright?” touching the younger woman’s shoulder lightly.

She seemed to have forgotten Serana for a moment. When she was touched she looked up at her, quite utterly lost, searching for her name in her wandering gaze.

Empty grief crept into the older woman, for a moment she was forgotten, for a moment no one on Nirn could see her. However, when she truly saw Serana, Maesa gave the sweetest of smiles.

“I’m alright.”

Serana was unconvinced.

She worried, about many silly things. Also many important things. Chief amongst them now was of politics, and the effect that court politics was already having on Maesa. Of course she couldn’t have refused the Jarl’s visit. They were staying in his house, under his hospitality. Simple manners prevented them from all but the utmost curtesy, unless of course Ulfric made the first blunder.

Maesa was asking about breakfast. Serana missed the first few words, caught up in her thoughts, but she guessed them and soon followed her easily.

She pointed over to the long table, at the mountain of food. She was pleased when Maesa let her decorum slip for a moment and gaped at the sight.

“Foolish man and his posturing.” She muttered. Awkwardly she began to pull the blankets and furs aside.

Serana moved to help her again, this time undeterred by her protests. “Do you think you can walk?” She asked, her hands accidently brushing Maesa’s legs as she tucked the blankets back. “You lost so much blood yesterday.”

Maesa shrugged, which swiftly turned into a half grimace as she began to try and move her legs. Being unable to put weight on her injured shoulder and the arm that descended from it, made her unsteady. Had Serana not been there to catch her, she would have fallen from the bed.

“Damn it!” she cursed quietly, her voice filled with bitterness and hurt.

The younger woman in her optimism had lent too far forward and now she found herself nestled in Serana’s grip. The Nord had one arm around her waist, whilst the other sort her uninjured hand, trying to lend some comfort.

“Sit down for a moment.” Serana soothed, tilting her gently back so she once more rested on the bed. Maesa wouldn’t like it, she knew as much in her gut, but there was no other way forwards.

Serana would have to carry her.

She kissed the back of Maesa’s knuckles and gave her what she wished to be a reassuring smile. Then she rose and walked over to the long table.

She set a chair near the fireside where the warmth of the flame spilled out across the large room. She lavished the seat with cushions and set before it on the table a plate with all the cutlery Maesa would need. Then she walked back. The Imperial watching her curiously.

When she knelt before her again Serana found her withdrawn, a deep, shadowy sullenness having taken over her features. The Nord took up her hands from where they lay across her knees quite utterly despondent, and murmured “My dear, tell me what troubles you?”

Of course she knew very well. She knew its form, its smell, its taste. She was familiar with its weight most keenly. Her hope was, that by speaking its name she might just draw from Maesa the worst of it’s sting.

Maesa did not speak at first. She kept her head bowed and remained in that cowed position, quite still.

Then her fingers began to twitch and flicker. The tips drew soft lines, brushing and tracing the creases that webbed Serana’s hands, caressing the swell at the base of her palms, grazing her nails over veins at her wrists that still held Maesa’s own blood.

“I’m not used to this,” She confessed to an entranced Serana. “I’m not used to feeling this vulnerable.”

The older woman’s throat was dry, her nerves were dancing on a taught harp string. Yet she bent a little lower and peered up, attempting to capture Maesa’s gaze. She snatched it up at once and held it firmly.

“Let me take care of you.” She pressed. “Let me show you the kindness and love you have already shown me.”

Her words brought the glimmer back to Maesa’s eyes. “Just don’t go running from any dragons, or exploring any abandoned caves without me.” She threatened on a whisper, an undeniable smirk touching the left corner of her lips. “As soon as I regain my magicka I’ll get us out of this den of wolves and bears.”

“We can leave here sooner if you wish.” Serana offered hopefully. “I can keep us safe on the road and we can continue north.” She knew even as she voiced her notion that it had no place in court politics.

“We cannot upset Ulfric. To leave too soon would prove dangerous for us both.” She was starting to sound better, not cheerful or happy, but focused, her mind testing the bars of their temporary cage.

Serana’s own mood sank a little at Ulfric’s name. She needed to air her suspicions on his underlying motives, but perhaps now was not the best time. “Maybe we can stay in the city? At least we could get away from his court.”

“Maybe.” Maesa acknowledged her idea, but as of that moment had no real investment in it. “For now we must be careful and cautious.”

Serana pushed aside her plotting. “First you must eat.” She insisted. “Come, I’ll carry you to the table.”

Serana would have done so, had Maesa consented or not. She wouldn’t soon get better if she didn’t eat after all. A settled quality seemed to have taken over the Imperial though, and without much pause she gave a small nod.

The Nord’s hands slipped slowly about the younger woman, drawing her into the circle of her body protectively. When she lifted her, she did so with ease. She was careful to maintain balance, with her now one sided centre. Maesa wrapped her good arm around Serana’s neck and let the other rest in the crook of her lap.

It was only a handful of steps to the chair. They were not so much entwined, the mortal woman’s warmth more pressed against her, but never the less an intimacy bloomed between them. Never had Serana been quite this close to her whilst she was awake, in her right mind and not delirious with exhaustion.

She promised herself, as she let Maesa down onto the chair, withdrawing her arms yet lingering a hopeful touch at her shoulder blades, that this would not be the last intimacy between them. As she slipped away the air was already robbing her of the warmth Maesa always brought her.

The younger woman stopped her.

Maesa lifted her fingertips across her left cheek, tracing shivers along the pearlescent skin. With that light touch alone she drew her close, and tenderly, she pressed her lips to her other cheek, kissing there softly.

“Thank you.” She whispered against her.

A shaky sound escaped Serana, its identity a muddle between a sigh and a gasp. Somewhere in her chest, deep in the oily black silence, a low tremor heralded the long awaited start of _it’s_ first ascent.

She knew in that moment, and that for all the moments that followed, she would do anything for Maesa. Just to hear that whisper again.  

 


	12. The Unspoken Matter at Hand

“Serana?”

“Hmmm?” The Nord responded taking a sip of the sweet cider in her goblet, peering at Maesa over the lip.

“What would happen if you ‘abstained’?” Maesa inquired carefully, pushing her empty plate away, instead resting her fingers upon the gentle curves of her own goblets pewter stem. “If circumstances meant that you could not partake of nourishment for a lengthy time?”

_Blood._

There were many reasons why she couldn’t be more direct, all of them sensible. Still, Serana found herself a little perturbed by the verbal gymnastics they were now forced to discuss the matter with. It could not be avoided. She finished her drink, set the vessel down firmly on the table, and brought her gaze to meet Maesa’s.

“It would drive me mad.”

A far more accurate word might have been _feral,_ but she didn’t dare say it out loud. It was only so many tiptoes of suggestion between that word and _vampire_.

The only difference between a _feral vampire_ and a rabid dog was that a vampire didn’t froth at the mouth. That, and a vampire consumed their own flesh. She decided to spare Maesa from that sickening imagery, besides, from the expressions crossing her face it was quite clear to Serana she already had a good grasp of her underlying meanings.

“I see.” She said softly, looking to the fire, her mind working over many thoughts with meticulous care.

Leaving her to her ponderings Serana looked across the table. They’d consumed barely a quarter of the food that had been laid out for them. Maesa’s appetite had been light, and Serana, who was a few dozen decades out of the habit of consuming food, had eaten little.

She had worried briefly that Maesa had not consumed enough. Serana could not guess what a ‘proper’ amount might be. Her worries were quietened when she realised that, if nothing else, Maesa was a talented healer. She would know what was sensible, what was required for a swift recovery.  

They both wanted to leave as soon as possible. Serana smiled when she’d remembered their earlier conversation. A blush came when she recalled Maesa’s kiss.

Maesa shifted noticeably in her chair, and when Serana looked she found the younger woman considering the windows, particularly the low bench that stood beneath them.

“Would you help me over to the window please?” Maesa asked, her voice measured and calm, even though her brows were furrowed, and her mouth was set grimly in a thin line.

Serana stood, and with two hands pulled Maesa’s chair out from under the table. Whilst she couldn’t deny that the thought of holding Maesa so close again brought a burble of nervous joy to her chest, a pang of sympathy joined it when she saw the shame that worried her dear face.

“Hopefully I’ll be able to manage a few steps by this afternoon.” She said on a frustrated sigh as Serana lifted her carefully up into her arms. Out of habit it seemed the Imperial tucked her herself into the curve of Serana’s neck, hooking her good arm across her back.  

With Maesa the way she was, Serana could easily believe that the impossible woman could recover as much in a day. When everything was more settled she’d ask her at great length about her Restorative abilities. In that moment however she simply carried her, as requested, over to the windows, setting her down upon the low bench.

The Imperial twisted round to look out the window as Serana sat beside her. She was quite beautiful in the cold sky’s overcast light.

It had already dawned on her that Maesa was considering how best to manage the tricky problem of blood. She wondered what exactly she’d come up with. After all, why else would she request to sit here, far from the warmth of the fire, on an un-cushioned bench, so far away from the door, and the hearing of any who might be stood behind it.

“Before you were locked away, how long was it usually between…?” Even with the distance from the door Maesa seemed reluctant to speak openly.

“Between drinks?” Serana offered, smiling at the ridiculous way they could so easily be talking about nearly any other vice.

Maesa shot her a gently admonishing look, spoiled by an amused smirk. “Yes. That.”

Any humour swiftly evaporated. “Well, you saw father’s court.” Serana replied. “His feasts may just put the Jarl here to shame.” She couldn’t prevent the whisperings of bitterness in her voice, she seemed to be becoming squeamish. “We ‘partook’ every day, at least once a day.”

“Every day?” Maesa repeated, her tone lost somewhere between aghast and astonished.

Serana did not reply.

“That will prove problematic.” The Imperial murmured to herself, but mercifully she did not dwell on the thought for long. “What about before? Have you always consumed so much?”

“Not always. Just before I was locked away, mother and I only fed once every three days or so. We were nearly always in her garden, or her study.” They were not happy memories.

Serana had realised, during that long silence of her ‘sleep’, that it had all been a distraction. Made perhaps to protect her on some level, but also to manage her impressions of her father. Everything with her mother was always a strategy with a goal, and a path so convoluted and twisted around often at times her plots took years to come to fruition.

She wasn’t sure now that she could ever really recall a simple scenario with her mother.

“We just might just be able to manage that.” Maesa’s voice was so quiet Serana almost missed the words. Then, she became far more animated. “My things, our gear, did they get brought here?”

Something like a plan was forming in the younger woman’s mind. A flame of energetic enthusiasm sparked under her typically methodical exterior.

The vampire narrowed her gaze. “What are you thinking of?” She asked, not even tempted to hide the suspicion from her voice. She had a bad feeling about the direction this was taking.  

In that strange way Serana had rarely witnessed, Maesa seemed to step ahead of her, and narrowed in on her true fears with a marksman’s accuracy. “I’m not going to hurt myself.” But at the end of her assurance there was a hesitancy, and it spoke volumes.

Before Serana could lay flat her absolute distaste for anything that would involve spilling any of Maesa’s blood in any fashion, the Imperial continued.

“I have an artefact of sorts.” She explained quickly. “It’s in my pack, it can help us. It’s called the White Phial. It will regenerate any liquid placed within it once every day.” She placed two fingers on the pulsing vein at her wrist, pressing lightly as she spoke. “If I place my blood inside the phial, you will have a renewable supply, even if we are separated.”

Serana stared at her. She had never heard of such a thing. It seemed utterly ridiculous. Such an item, if it truly did work as Maesa said it did, would be so sort after, so prized. How could she have possibly managed to keep such a thing hidden? How on Nirn did she just happen to have it in her pack?

She studied her with a critical eye, wondering if she was telling her the entire truth. “How often would you have to feed this phial?” She asked, making sure to study every unsaid hesitance, every inflection, every nervous twitch of her tightly clasped hands.

“Just once.” Maesa replied, unable to keep a cheerful smile from her lips. “It will never cease refilling until a new substance is assigned to it.”

Still, her scepticism remained. “Where did you get it from? If its from a Daedra I really don’t think…”

“It will work.” Maesa insisted impatiently, she pressed herself forward, her good hand clasping Serana’s arm tightly. “Trust me, it will work. Where are our things?”

The fire roared quietly to itself in the hearth, and behind them she could hear the wind whistling through the streets outside. It felt far too simple. Too easy. It made her cautious of such otherwise tempting hope.

“I imagine our things are still at the Inn.” She said slowly, brows still furrowed. Could it really be so simple?

For the second time in that morning a sharp rapping at the door interrupted them. Only this time the visitor did not wait to be admitted. In a flurry of robes, the crotchety old mage from the night before burst into the room.

He seemed in mid conversation with a cowering selection of servants who hung back in the corridor. “…I don’t damn well care if Ysgramor himself is expected, I’m not going to let a poxy self-aggrandising piece of social horse shite ruin my good work!”

Wuunferth stormed into the centre of the room, and in a moment of comical confusion, stopped dead and twisted this way and that searching for them. When he spied them by the window his elderly eyes narrowed.

Maesa leant close to Serana, her eyes on the mage and whispered “Wuunferth always was a charmer.”

“If you want to die of pneumonia that’s fine by me, sitting near the bloody window.” He advanced on them like an army sergeant, his booted feet stomping on the stones, his grey beard swinging like a pendulum. “So long as it’s not your damn shoulder that kills you its fine by me.”

He stood before them, his strangely imposing form blocking them off from the meek views of the servants, who moved quickly to clear away the remains of their breakfast. The old mage began his ‘duty’ without hesitation, one set of gnarled fingers grasping the hem of Maesa’s night shirt, tugging it aside and revealing the puckered wound. The other four and their thumb yanked her arm out straight, stretching the tender newly mended muscles.

The sharp movements tore a yelp from Maesa, though she tried her best to silence it. Before she realised what she was doing Serana snatched forward and drove her finger nails into the sagging liver spotted skin of the mages forearm.

“Get away from her!”

As soon as the snarl had left her lips she realised in a sickening lurch that she’d bared her fangs. Her top lip had curled just enough to expose the glistening points.

Maesa had turned quite ashen.

Wuunferth stared, initially so taken aback, he was stunned into silence.

No one moved for several moments.

“Milord?” One of the servants called out hesitantly. “Should we bring the chest in?”

“Wuunferth…” Maesa began, softly enough that the servants had no chance of hearing, reaching out for the silent, starring man with a trembling hand.

The elderly mage bellowed with such a forced that the sound reverberated out of his throat with all the power of a she-bear. “Am I to do your jobs too! Put the blasted thing over by the bed and finish clearing the table for the love of the nine!”

To the servants his bark lost none of it’s bite, his back to them, his face hidden. But to Serana and Maesa his expression betrayed his amazement, and his concern.

With a shuffle of nervous activity, a gaggle of five servants went about finishing their work. A heavy looking chest was placed by the foot of the bed whilst the plates and dishes from breakfast were hurriedly stacked.

Wuunferth’s position concealed the two women from any curious glances. “This will need to be put in a sling.” He declared loudly, retrieving from his sleeve a reel of clean white linen. “Do you know how to tie one woman?” he asked Serana.

“I…” She stuttered.

There was no way he missed her idiocy, perhaps this was an uncharacteristic show of concern for his underlings. He wished the servants out of harm’s way, fearing she’d attack them if he announced her true nature. Maybe he was calculating some other means of using this new knowledge to his advantage.

Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to protect _them_ from the servants.

Wuunferth gave a piteous sigh of resignation and declared irritably “I am surround by incompetence.”

He flexed his fingers once, lifting his thick steel-wool eye brows, flicking his sharp eyes between Serana and her hand, nails still digging into left his arm.

Uncertain, she released him slowly.

“Hold her hand up to her shoulder.” He instructed, handing over Maesa’s despondent arm to the vampire.

When Serana looked to Maesa she nodded silently, though worry was clear in her expression. When she pulled her arm into position the Imperial whimpered mutely, pressing her forehead into Serana’s shoulder as the vampire obeyed the stubborn old Nord.

 

* * *

 

The servants scurried out, straightening the sheets one last time and dusting the table top down as they passed.

Wuunferth sat in a chair by the fire, a long-stemmed pipe nestled in the bowl of his palm. He puffed the heady smoke out lazily, casting it around him in a grey cloud. He watched them through the haze, his pale eyes guarded.

Maesa hand rested upon the small of Serana’s back, and they sat side by side, their defences stalwart. Neither knew yet just how Wuunferth planned to react. So, they waited in a tense silence, till the last of the servants had left.

“What do you plan to do?” Maesa asked quietly. A new woman, one Serana had not seen before, glimpsed out from behind her eyes. One that seemed older, shrewder and more cutting than before. This stranger’s presence unnerved her.

The mage took a long drag on the dried leaf in his pipe, letting another spread of smoke out in an easy stream. He scratched at the roots of his scraggly beard with a single gnarled finger, then picked an invisible hair from the front of his robe.

“She’s fed on you hasn’t she.” He stated calmly.

Serana stiffened at once.

“Yes.” Maesa answered.

Wuunferth’s face betrayed nothing. “And have you noticed a change? In either yourself or Serana since then?” He asked, knocking his knuckles against the armrest.

Maesa frowned. “No.”

“Have you taken anything else from each other?” The mage asked, his tone never changing, never faltering. “Have you slept with each other?”

Serana’s mouth hung slightly open, her eyes widening.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Maesa demanded sharply. To her credit she seemed immune to the sudden violent blush that had overtaken Serana, but she could not hide the intense irritation from her voice.

The old mage shook his head, seemingly disappointed with her. “A bite is not the only way the condition can be passed on. Any exchange, be it an every day, or more carnal affair has the potential for infection. Depending on the bloodline, obviously.” He looked at Serana coldly, examining her as if she were a specimen in a jar. “It can even be passed on unknowingly.”

“She hasn’t enthralled me, Wuunferth. Or infected me.” Maesa’s voice held a certainty Serana admired.

She turned to the other woman. “You know about enthrallment?”

“Of course.” Maesa replied, quite perplexed. “It’s a common enough danger.”

Serana simply stared at her, profoundly alarmed. Just exactly what sort of life made vampire enthrallment a ‘common danger’?

Seeking at once to draw attention back to the mage and the larger topic, Maesa pressed on. “I am in possession of my own mind Wuunferth, you can surely see that as plainly as I can.”

The old man began to stretch the muscles in his neck carefully, tilting his wrinkled head from one side to the other. “You realise that with the murders and current tensions in the court Ulfric’s been looking for a scape goat.” He said, sounding a little bored. “Bringing a vampire into his palace, under his nose, is frankly idiotic.” He took another long drag of the pipe. “Ignoring that, and the matter of her nature at large, carrying on with her under Ulfric’s roof is going to cause a bloodbath.”

The older woman felt herself bristling like a bad-tempered alley cat. “Why should it matter who she ‘carries on with’?” She snapped, the light pressure of Maesa’s hand on her back doing nothing to calm her aggravation.

Wuunferth looked first to Maesa, waiting to see if she would answer. When the Imperial did not, instead favouring to look anywhere but at himself or Serana, the old mage let out a long weary sigh.

“Ulfric wants to give his little rebellion as much traction as he can possibly get it. If that means riling up racial tensions, he’ll do it. If that means attacking neutral traders to cut off the Empires supplies, he’ll do it.” The expression on his wrinkled old face was almost pitying as finally he said “If that means forcing a marriage between his house and an Imperial hero of legend, well, I don’t suppose he’d even think twice.”

In the stunned silence that followed Wuunferth topped up his pipe, adding “He wants to marry her to his cousin. If that fails, he’ll seek to make her a private, but very public, mistress to one of his leading confidants.” He used a single crooked finger to relight the leaf. “Honestly, I think if this war goes on much longer he’ll marry you himself, desperate times call for foolhardy measures.”

Maesa’s face was flush. Her hand was trembling slightly, her fingers clutching at the fabric of Serana’s night gown. “I am not a bargaining chip in his war.” She hissed, glaring intently at the flagstones.

The old mage looked at her with such tender sadness, a paternal pity, that he almost looked kind. “If he catches on that not only do you have a weakness he can exploit, but that such a person exists under his very roof, he’ll make you into anything he wants.”

Maesa flicked her eyes up to meet Wuunferth’s, a burning determination alight in their smoky depths. “What will you do now?”

“Keep myself as far out of Ulfric’s way as possible.” He replied, standing with a creaking reluctance, wincing as he stretched out his back. “I suggest the two of you do the same. When a Bear smells blood, it’ll go straight for your throat.”


	13. You Told Me It Was Mine

What had been revealed took a long time in settling before Serana could truly comprehend half of it. Thankfully Wuunferth was happy to let himself out. Maesa had entreated him to bring their possessions up from the Inn. With a grumble which could have been interpreted as a rather profane string of curses, he’d agreed.

After his sizable presence had departed there came only a long tense silence.

Serana wrestled with her emotions. She wasn’t angry. Not with Maesa at least. She wasn’t really angry with Wuunferth either. She wanted to jumble his ingredients cabinet, and switch around his tinctures, but such small acts of revenge for the minor aggravation his presence caused her were nothing more than child’s play.

Then there was Ulfric.

It would be so easy to hate him. She could slip into the emotion like a well-worn glove, knowing every complexity and every facet of its function. Yet, a logical side to her roiling emotions called her back. She’d barely heard a dozen words from him directly, and she’d never actually spoken to him herself. How could she know whether Wuunferth was telling the truth?

He had saved Maesa. That’s how she could tell. Serana held her head in her hands, and took a fortifying breath against the ache that pounded behind her eyes. She was trying to solve a puzzle, with only a scattering of pieces. She longed for the simplicity that seemed to exist in the early hours of their yesterday. Where she could quietly pursue Maesa’s affections without the chaos of her thirst, attempted murder, or the shadow of regional politics hanging over their every waking breath.

She absently became aware of Maesa’s hand, still placed on the small of her back. Her grip had loosened, her fingers no longer grasping at the cotton of Serana’s night gown. Despite everything else, she found the light pressure comforting, an anchor in the churning chaos that surrounded her. Gradually she calmed her inner storm, taking deep slow breaths.

“We need to leave as soon as possible.”

The younger woman had said nothing since Wuunferth had left. She’d simply sat, as silent as Serana, her mind and her thoughts just as tangled. Now, it seemed, she had collected enough of herself together to speak.

“How soon is _soon_?” Serana asked. Much as she’d like to flee the palace that very second, Maesa’s arm was useless, and no doubt they be questioned as soon as they left this room. Even if she could keep them safe on the road they couldn’t travel in nightgowns, and all of Maesa’s gear was still at the Inn.  

The Imperial slumped a little, resting the back of her neck on the hard curve of the benches carved back. “I’m not sure.” She sounded so tired, a tight grimace pulling her mouth. She shifted a little, trying to ease the pressure of the sling that Serana had been instructed to keep secured. With a tiny grunt of frustration, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m sorry I can’t help with that.” Serana looked at the crisp white fabric, seeing only the flaws of her knots, instead of the supposed benefits it was supposed to bring. She knew it was pointless to even attempt a restoration spell of her own.

She’d always had a talent for magic. Even before her ‘initiation’. It had always been a matter of no small amount of pride for her. She had mastery over Conjuration. Alchemy and Destruction came easily. Alteration came with little effort. With her Vampiric nature all such talents were rendered all the more superior. But she had never managed even the smallest of healing spells. Her last attempt, before she’d been locked away, had not ended pleasantly for anyone involved.

Maesa was breathing deeply and evenly beside her. In the soft glow of the winter sky and the tawny dappled firelight, Serana drank in the patterns of shadow across her skin, wondering, just for a moment when she might next be able to hold her close again. For a moment she wondered whether the younger woman might have actually fallen asleep.

Then in a stiff, sudden movement her eyes snapped open.

“Maybe…” Maesa whispered to the high vaulted ceiling, her eyes picking a single sharp point to focus in on with painful intensity.

Serana watched, transfixed into a muted silence as Maesa’s mouth moved to shape unspoken words carefully, her lips murmuring sounds that had yet to receive firm form. She was working furiously, calculating, treading paths and judging junctions in a flurry of manic mental activity.

When she at last spoke aloud to be heard again, Serana half jumped out of her senses.

“It will work!” Maesa declared, her gaze snapping to the other woman, her optimism and delight alive and writhing behind her silver eyes. “I can ward against your magic, feed from your magicka! If we keep the charges under a certain level, then I can absorb your magicka just enough to speed up the recovery of my own power.”

“Slow down.” Serana ordered firmly, a little lost at first amongst the flurry of words and giddy excitement.

When she had a moment to consider her theory she recognised immediately there was as much danger in the plan as there was possible gain. Granted it was sound in basic principle. Magicka could be transferred in such a way, it was hazardous if the levels of focus were not correctly aligned, but it could work. However, as brilliant as Maesa’s mind was, she was overlooking something.

“My body is still working through the effects of… well… our transfer.” She explained, unable to keep the grimace or the hesitancy from her voice. “Even the weakest of my spells might overwhelm your ward.”

“Surely it is worth trying.” It was strange to hear Maesa plead with her, but that was exactly what she was now doing. “If it works, and I can heal my shoulder, we can leave, we can get away.”

Serana shifted round slightly, tucking one leg under herself, twisting to fix the younger woman in a sharp stare. “If you so much as feel the slightest wavering of your ward you will tell me immediately.” It was not a request. It was a demand.

Maesa nodded.

“Prepare your ward then.” Serana muttered, lifting her right hand, already tensing at the likely possibility that she would have to cut off the flow of her spell.

At once there was a shimmery second skin surrounding Maesa. “I’m ready.”

Serana took in a steadying breath.

‘ _Divines don’t let this go badly._ ’ She prayed.

With the utmost care she allowed the smallest trickle of her magicka to take form. She chose her bloodlines specialty, the element that all Volkihar had an intimate knowledge of. She chose Ice.

In the heat of the room her palm began to exude a fine drifting mist. It fell as slow water through her fingers, sweeping out across their legs, before melting away into the air. Only the smallest film of frozen water gathered there, a glittering dust of crystals.

Maesa’s shimmering hand tentatively drew closer. With some hesitancy she slipped her fingers across Serana’s palm, shivering despite her ward. Then, she pressed their hands together, and from their merging magics came the most glorious reaction.

Usually such spells were used in the heat of battle, where there scarcely a moment to fully think, let alone turn to admire such intimate workings of transference. Calm, settled, and momentarily safe as they were, the two women were witness to something quite marvellous.

From the tender press of their hands sprung a dance of fleeting, silver light. Sweeping in slight ribbons, speckled with pinpricks of blinding white power that existed only for a heartbeat, before dying away into the shifting air. Serana could feel the tug as her magicka was syphoned. It was small, but insistent, a single thread being teased from a grand and complicated tapestry.   

“Beautiful.” Maesa breathed, looking between the dance of light and Serana, a wistful expression full of wonder shimmering across her eyes.

They brought the transference to a reluctant end after a few minutes. Already Maesa looked refreshed, renewed, colour in her cheeks and an easy smile on her lips that made Serana’s breath catch.

The Nord stopped her spell first, feeling the warmth of the room and of Maesa’s hand seep across her cool skin as the ice melted away. She slipped her fingers forward to slide around Maesa’s wrist, relishing in the fluttering of her nerves.

“Is it enough?” She asked eagerly, forgetting her initial hesitancies over the plan. “I can give you more if not.”

“Let me try.” Maesa chuckled. Then she was concentrating, her pale eyes closed, her lips pressed together.

Their hands still clasped tightly together, Serana felt a slight trickle of Maesa’s spell tickle her skin as it set to work. Steadily, starting small, and then growing to the strength of an alter candle, a warm glow of power engulfed Maesa’s shoulder.

She could not see the progress it made. They’d bandaged her shoulder tightly as well as placed it in a sling when Wuunferth was there. It remained longer than Serana expected, and not once, after it’s initial appearance did it dim.

It wasn’t until a fine sheen of sweat started form across Maesa’s face that Serana realised she was pushing her newly returned magicka too far.

“Stop!” She demanded, gripping the Maesa’s wrist tightly.

When she did not receive a reply, Serana tugged her forwards. Maesa swayed a little, but she did not open her eyes, did not break her concentration, and still the flow of power continued. Serana pulled her sharply, causing Maesa to fall forwards, her body collapsing into Serana’s chest.  

The magic faded quickly, and Maesa began to pant heavily.

“That was utterly foolish.” Serana snapped, her face feeling tight as she scowled at the Imperial. She tucked Maesa’s hair hastily aside, searching for her face amongst the mess of black ringlets.

She was pale, shaken, yet at her lips a smile spread widely. She looked up at Serana, half collapsed upon her lap and lifted her injured arm carefully from its cradle.

“Yes.” She wheezed, beaming as she inspected her handiwork. “It probably was. But it was definitely worth some foolishness.”

With a bone deep sigh Serana shook her head. “I swear if I had a heart you’d have stopped it a dozen times by now.”

Maesa reached up to her, her newly mended arm shaking only slightly. “It may not be beating as mine does.” She said, the radiance of her smile blistering Serana’s skin.

With a single trembling finger, the Imperial traced the curve of her neck, ghosting over the very spot Serana’s pulse should be. “But you have a heart, Serana. I know you do. Because, last night, you told me it was mine.”

 

* * *

 

 

They spent the remainder of the day quite happily indeed. Inside the wooden chest the servants had brought whilst Wuunferth ‘attended’ Maesa, were the dresses that Jorlief had promised to send. They were sumptuous garments, made with the finest fabrics, trimmed with luxuriously soft furs and fine embroidery.

They had dressed separately, making use of a tall wooden panelled screen that stood in the corner of the room. Serana was silently thankful for the arrangement.

Her skin had flushed so readily when Maesa had traced her jaw, she’d been so tempted to throw caution to the wind and kiss the smirk from her mouth. They needed to be cautious. Yes, they could leave sooner than they’d hoped and be free of Ulfric’s gaze, but until they actually left the walls of the city itself they needed guard their actions.

Serana needed no excuses to be tempted into foolhardy passion.  

When Maesa emerged from behind the panel she was adorned in a flowing garment of deep green, the blush of velvet hanging heavily from her hips. Certain that she was starring quite rudely at her, Serana had turned away, a deep red blush creeping across her pale cheeks.

“You approve?” Maesa had asked her, a knowing smile playing across her lips.

It took every fibre of control in her being, every hair, to stem the furious desire to show Maesa directly just how much she approved of the dress. Instead, through almost gritted teeth, she’d simply said “It suits you.” and had then hurried past her to change into her own garment.

She had selected a dress of red. Deep, wet crimson, sashed at the waist with rich black velvet. Her mother would be proud. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she looked every inch a queen.

They tended each other’s hair as best they could, combing the tangles out, with Serana braiding Maesa’s dark ringlets half back, whilst she let her own hair tumble free of its usual style.

She caught herself realising, as she batted Maesa’s hand away playfully when the younger woman reached up to touch her new braids, that she really shouldn’t be enjoying herself quite so much. After all, what was all this finery for if not to dress them up like prize cattle? Ulfric’s imminent visit was the cause behind the fancy dresses and the fuss.

It was his visit that was hanging over their actions, his gaze they had to guard against, his plots Serana had to keep Maesa from being entangled in.

Yet, none of it could keep the smile from her face.

Wuunferth interrupted them at one point, in his usual manner of loud and obtrusive entry, bringing with him a single quaking serving boy, laden low with their gear. He demanded to know at once how it came to be that Maesa was healed, glaring openly at the pair of them, suspicion clear on his wrinkled brow.

Maesa dealt with his fierce curiosity gracefully, explaining every aspect of the transfer in exacting detail. The old mage seemed begrudgingly impressed, yet he still reprimanded them for their lack of care and patience.

The child, having stood throughout the entire debate under the heavy burden of their gear, accidently dropped one of Maesa’s daggers. The small blade fell to the floor with a jarring clang and clatter.

At once Wuunferth flew in a rage at the boy, calling down all sorts of divine punishments and damnations for interrupting their discussion. The poor lad had meekly tried to hide himself behind the remainder of his burden, shuffling and slumping with the shame Wuunferth ladled over him.

Serana watched the entire episode with a bemused little smirk, highly entertained by the affair.

Maesa, ever the diplomatic one, urged Wuunferth to let the lad be, requesting kindly that he place their gear on the end of the bed. Wuunferth dismissed himself, storming out, though Serana suspected it was mostly for show.

Left alone with the two of them the boy seemed utterly lost, and all the more terrified. He couldn’t have been more than nine or so. He muttered all forms of apologies and self-deprecations, wringing his tiny hands in a constant, nervous motion.

Maesa laughed at him affectionately, thinking aloud that he was really quite sweet, and far too young for carrying such a heavy load. She’d placed her scarred left hand on the crown of his little head with a mother’s tenderness and tangled her fingers in his light juvenile curls.

The boy had frozen for a moment, unsure of exactly how to respond to this unexpected affection. Maesa continued to soothe him, telling him all manner of kind things, and instructing him not to pay mind to what the old mage had said. Then she took him to the door and sent him away with a single gold coin from her satchel pressed firmly into his tiny palm.

“Hopefully he’ll manage to buy something for himself.” She’d said, as she watched the tiny child scamper down the hallway.

Serana had come to stand beside her, smirking as the boy had turned and waved to them one last time before darting down the shadowed stair case.

It was early evening when the older servants started rustling. Scampering and scurrying, running to and fro, knocking every few minutes at their door, bearing platters of food, cleanly cut logs supicsiously uniform, fine wines and expensive furs.

Their _King_ was coming, and they were laying out his carpet.

Serana was sickened by the groveling. It reminded her so much of her father's court. Everytime she saw one of the servants bow reverentially to them, she fought a wince.

Maesa soon noticed her stirring resentment, and her ever more present playfulness surfaced one more.

"You're certain you're not the type of woman to sit in her castle?" Her light inflection, the tiny twist at the corner of her mouth as she looked up to Serana, the way her eyes twinkled in the fire light, she knew exactly what she was doing to her companion. What’s more she was enjoying every second of it.

They were stood by the fire, side by side, observing the servants as they entered and left. Their silhouettes casting long pulsating shadows across the freshly laid fur rug.

Serana had had quite enough. If Maesa was going to ignore Wuunferth’s warnings so blatantly, she would simply have to play her little game.

She dropped her gaze, leaning in just such a manner that Maesa was forced to lean back into the waiting crook of her arm, and said in a silken seductive murmur "Only if you were there with me, my darling."

Maesa blushed radiantly, her eyes wide. When Serana caught the sound of her breath catching in her throat, a shiver of excitement crackled down her spine.

At that exact moment a servant entered through the open doorway, and upon seeing the pair of them, became utterly flustered. The poor man bowed once, stiffly, unable to take his wide eyes from them. Then, he hurriedly bowed again.

When he'd stopped starred and bowed a third time Maesa took pity on him and kindly asked him what he'd come in for.

He couldn't remember. His discomfort was deliciously funny, and Serana savoured every drop of it. Keeping one eye on him she leant just a little closer and, pursing her lips, she pressed a kiss to the tight skin of Maesa's jaw line.

Maesa at once gave her a stern, bemused look.

The servant bowed in several more hurried little flurries before swiftly leaving, glancing between the pair in constant insect twitches.

As soon as the door closed Serana lay back her head and laughed deeply. "God's what a nervous man!" She exclaimed wiping premature shimmers of tears from her eyes, her ribs aching pleasantly.

Maesa tried to affect a frown but as her own laughter bubbled up in her chest she could not supress it.

"I suppose I deserved that." She sighed smirking at Serana as the last of her laughter faded away.

She suddenly lowered her voice, her eyes glinting wickedly. She touched soft skin along the underside of her pale arm with her calloused fingertips and drew her close enough to inhale. "Then again, maybe you deserve this just as much."

Then her achingly soft lips were at Serana's neck, and she forgot how to breath. The closeness of her, the light formless brushing of her breath against her skin, the gentle heat of her chin as it nuzzled into the hollow of her throat. Once, twice, Maesa kissed her neck, savouring each shudder, each breathless gasp that Serana felt leave her lips.

She was dreaming. She must be. Day dreaming perhaps, whilst the real Maesa moved seamlessly through the chaos of the servants.

"Last night, you said I had your heart." Maesa whispered against her, with every syllable her lips grazed her neck and Serana shuddered anew. “Shall I tell you who holds mine?”

“Maesa…” The other woman warned but gave an involuntary pause when the Imperial kissed her lightly again. “… if someone else walks through that door...”

Another servant did walk in. A woman this time.

She stopped starred, opening her mouth just a little, prepared to say something, and was then caught hopelessly trying to remember whatever that might have been.

“I should really have locked that door.” Maesa murmured, cautious that the other woman would not hear her.

Serana smiled despite herself, even as the press of Maesa’s body left her and she was left with naught but the suddenly icy air.

This was utterly reckless. If it had been Jorlief, or Ulfric who had walked in instead of the servant woman, then they could utterly abandon any notion of leaving the palace quietly. They’d have a whole new web of complexity to navigate, and a whole new set of obstacles in their path.

This was reckless. But how she so wanted to be reckless.

After some gentle coaxing Maesa managed to jog the poor serving woman’s memory. She had come to give them forewarning of her Lord’s imminent arrival.

A sudden yawning pit of dread opened up at the base of Serana’s stomach. Too close, far too close, had they been but the smallest bit unlucky then...

When she turned to Maesa and saw the dangerous glint still ghosting in her grey eyes, she felt weak in her own convictions. However, as the serving woman left, a cruel sheet of reason and temperance slid across the younger woman’s face, and finally the little spark of her teasing dimmed.

“Damn.” Maesa sighed, seeming to settle back into herself, her weight and balance shifting to her back foot. “I’m sorry, that was a bit too much wasn’t it.” She said it with endearing sincerity, but riding beneath was a terse impatience, and a frustration that bit tightly into every word.

Serana sucked in a long slow breath, hoping to find some sense of calm before Ulfric’s arrival.

The corridor outside was silent now. The servants appeared to be lending them some form of respite from their scurrying’s before the main event.

Taking the last moments of peace Serana took up her courage. “When we leave here, when we’re back on the road, your going to tell me the answer to your question. Aren’t you?”

Maesa’s playful smile danced briefly across her glowing face. “I will. I promise.”

As they stood side by side, waiting for the meeting that neither of them wanted to be a part of Serana came to a firm fixed decision. She didn’t care who this Ulfric Stormcloak was. If he threatened their happiness, their future, she would teach the bear cub how a ‘true daughter of Skyrim’ fought her battles.


	14. The Bear King

The Bear King carried himself with an air of self-prophesised grandeur, a ‘nobility’ that was so acutely familiar to Serana she felt nauseous. That declared and paraded pomposity was a robe she’d seen cloak her parents. As light as gossamer thread at first, malleable to their purpose. As the need for it grew, so did its weight, saturated by all those chattels who needed to believe the lie. Till it lay upon the wearer, now a hostage, smothering them in its leaden shroud.

 And yet, as he exchanged formal greetings with Maesa, kissing first her right cheek then her left, stubble against soft skin, his smile radiated a brotherly warmth. At once she understood why men followed him, and why they might do so unto their own deaths. He was disarmingly charismatic, passionate to a fault, and confident in the particular way only a Nord seemed able to be.

When Maesa came to introducing Serana she found the full force of his personality pressed onto her, ice blue eyes taking her in meticulously, for the first time undistracted.

“Lady Serana.” He gave a careful inclination of his naturally golden crown. “It’s a pleasure to see Maesa in such compassionate company. Thank you for nursing her.”

Dangerously polite, but she felt the bladed edge to his thanks. He was measuring her out, taking the point of his profound dichotomy between greetings and warning, to gauge the depths of her patience.  She was, as of yet, unknown to him. He seemed determined to change this fact, and whats more, he sort to measure her attachment to Maesa.

Serana resigned herself to a tactical silence, but gave a lowly curtsy, one such as her mother might demand were she in Ulfric’s place. She seemed to have correctly guessed the Bear Kings mood, as at her gesture he offered her an all to approving smile.  

They all moved to sit at the fireside, the servants having moved adequate seating there to accommodate them. The two women sat on the long bench, hips pressed lightly one against the other, the blush of warmth soothing Serana’s nerves. The would-be king sat in one of the dining chairs, cushioned adequately and draped in plush, white wolf skins, directly opposite his most welcome and scrutinised guests.

“I’m surprised to see you so well recovered already, my Lady.” Ulfric began, indicating loosely to Maesa’s arm with a casual wave of his heavily bejewelled hand. “When I saw you last night I thought for sure you would be forced to your bed for a week at least.”

“Wuunferth and Serana have helped me to quicken the process.” Maesa explained. “Without them I would no doubt be still quite immobilised.”

“I am certain you are paying too much credit to my court mage.” A rumbling chuckle rolled from Ulfric easily. “Wuunferth is talented in many things, but healing? I would sooner trust Jorlief or Calder to bandage my wounds. No. Surely in that case it is Lady Serana who must take the greatest of our gratitude.”

At mention of her name he turned to her, and there was no where to run.

“From where do you hail my Lady? I have met only a few of Maesa’s companions, but I’m certain I have not heard of you mentioned before yesterday. Have you travelled long with her?”

If Maesa were to answer for her, it would only fuel any suspicions the Bear King already harboured. She was on her own. For better or for worse Serana had to forge for herself an identity that would protect them both. It was time to see just how well she could lie.

“My family come from the south, my Lord.” Serana began, feeling Maesa’s hip press into her own ever so lightly.

“From Riften?” Ulfric asked, already carrying a clear note of disbelief.

“From Cyrodiil.”

“Really? Where abouts?” At the name of the Imperial province Ulfric leant forward a little in his chair, his eyes only once glancing at Maesa.

Serana stole her nerve and ploughed on, hoping that not too much had changed of the provinces geography since she had read about it before her imprisonment. “Bruma, my Lord.”

The Bear King considered her for a long moment, his expression remaining pleasantly curious. “How fares the city? It has been many years since I managed to visit it.”

She could not look to Maesa for help. She must not give any indication that this was anything but a casual discussion. Her mouth had begun to feel dry. “It fares as well as it can, my Lord. In times such as these.”

“Indeed.” He shifted slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, never ceasing his scrutiny of her. “What brings you home to Skyrim? Did you come to help win your homelands liberation?”

 “Serana came to stay with me for a few seasons.” Maesa interjected, offering the floundering woman a warm smile.

Serana smiled back, trying to draw confidence from her easy gesture. She only drew a slight comfort.

“Oh? How is it you met one another?”

If the question had come from anyone else they could have rebuffed it with well founded protest for the issue falling well within their own private business. But it had been Ulfric who had asked, and as such they must reply.

Thankfully Maesa could take the lead, for now. “We met whilst I was traveling through Bruma some years ago.” She explained smoothly. “There were no beds available at either of the Inns so Serana kindly invited me to stay with her.”

“I see.” The Bear King pressed his focus back to Serana. “So are you a mage Serana? Or a healer of sorts?”

“I am an Alchemist, my Lord. I lack the aptitude for the school of Restoration itself.” Better to mix in some truth, Serana thought to herself. Easier to weave a small simple lie, than a complicated one.

“I should hire you to replace Wuunferth if you can work such wonders with such meagre resources.” It was said in jest. There was a boyish smirk of mischief twisting his mouth, but Ulfric’s sky blue eyes were hard, and cold.

He did not believe her.

“So, what brings you both to Windhelm?” He turned in his chair to better address them both. “I thought you planned to stay in Whiterun for a while Maesa.”

“I did.”

Would she tell Ulfric the truth? Serana wondered. Or would Maesa only add to their growing tapestry of half-truths, and damnable lies.

“Word reached me that Thalmor are renewing their search for dissident groups. I thought it better to leave before the patrols arrived.”

The truth then, or at least a part of it.

Ulfric gripped the arm rests of his chair tightly, his wide mouth pressed thin, his features hard in the flicker of the fire light. “What are they looking for?” He asked quickly, gaze locked on Maesa. “Are they moving against Balgruuf?”

A few straying curls escaped Maesa’s braids as she gently shook her head. “The force was too small, and too loud to orchestrate any serious move against the city. It sounded more like an operation against an individual, or perhaps they’re simply posturing.”

A grim, short bark of mirthless laughter came swiftly as Ulfric quickly brushed aside the theory. “You know as well as I do that the time for posturing passed for all of us the day their Embassy burned.”

_“The Thalmor are not to be underestimated.” Maesa gently yet firmly kneaded the soft skin at Serana’s wrist, her little frown dropping neatly into equal parts perplexity and curiosity. “They’re dangerously driven when they put their minds to a single objective.”_

_“Especially…” Lydia continued, “…when they believe they might finally have found the culprit behind their embassies little brush with fire.”_

Serana turned to the younger woman beside her. Maesa had been the one to burn the embassy, or at least that is what Lydia had indicated back then.

The Imperial was watching Ulfric, a strange tension to her body, a razor thin focus that saw only the Bear King.

“Do not lay the last years bloodshed at my feet.”

When the words came, it was not Maesa who spoke. The woman whose voice came spoke with the sharp whisper of an eager bloodied blade. It was thin, rasping, barely holding back a sneer.

“What do I care for dead elves.” Ulfric shrugged, picking up a nearby goblet of mead from the once more lavishly laden table. He considered the contents for a slow moment, before tipping the vessels contents down his throat. “I only wish the flames had not been tamed before they’d managed to burn Elenwen.”

Had they not been touching, Serana would never have been aware of how much Maesa tensed at sound of the woman’s name. The Imperial would say no more, and sat back, her face unreadable in the undulating shadows, the tension in her body remaining.

“It’s strange that she should send her vipers out now.” Ulfric continued, as much at ease as when they’d first sat. “It’s possible that they’re looking for you.”

Maesa remained silent.

“I’m sure Elenwen would find it impossible to let the insult of your successes rest for too long. I wonder if somethings stirred the hornet’s nest of late.” He took up his hand, pointing the first finger and swirled it around the in the air, he himself stirring the hive.

“You’re assuming the Thalmor were after me. We have no proof of that. They could have been hunting any number of heretics.” Maesa countered quietly, her voice almost back to its usual measure, though it was certainly no longer at ease.

Serana could not follow their debate. The sight of they’re broken bodies was assaulting her senses, they’re screams. The pale, still faces of many dead elves.

_The soured cream foam of the surf stuck to the shining cobble pebbles of the deserted beach. Not far behind, the black bones of the rotten jetty strained out into the broiling waters, an ancient finger pointing to the hall of its creators. Those who slumbered the daylight hours away, hidden beyond the coastal mist, inside walls of thick, grey stone._

_Dusk was close at hand; colour should have soaked the sky. Yet everything was washed out, muted and grey. Chill breezes would soon blow in the rains._

_Up, from amidst the dark divide of land and sea, she had emerged little more than an hour ago. Now, as Serana stood there, amongst the time and weather worn rocks, there was no living thing within the scope of her sight, and the swaying little jetty may just as well have been straining to escape the steady progress of the blood that trickled down to its sodden planks._

_On that spit of land that cast itself out into the Sea of Ghosts, many years ago, a soldier had once thought the rocky shore a fine place to repel their enemies from. So fine in fact that a fort had been erected only a few years later. Cut stone piled high, casting long shadows over invader and friend alike. The first builders fell, and the fort they left took to itself flag after flag, blaring colour and promise of permeance. Right through the ages, until all fell to time._

_Before the dusk that evening had begun its approach, an elven flag had swayed at the forts sturdy mast, its tail licking the topmost stone of the ramparts in the all but absent breeze. It lay now in puddling blood, steaming in the collecting cold of the descending night, its golden standard forever stained by the slaughter._

_There were many broken bodies within. Many men and women. Serana had not worried to count them. They were not what she had come to the fort to find. She had come seeking the woman who had woken her from the tomb. A nameless mysterious woman, with eyes the colour of stormy skies and hair as dark as a moonless midnight._

_As they’d passed the place, not six hours before, she’d seemed worried by the sight of the elves on the ramparts, and urged Serana to keep out of their sight. So, now separated by the whims of Serana’s father, the fort is where she had headed in the hopes of finding her again._

_A desperate try at an almost impossible task._

_But luck had smiled its toothy grin upon her. Beside a body of a young mer, whose eyes were drawn and dropped back into the sockets, whose was mouth slack and still somehow fixed in the terror of his final scream, lay a wreath of parchment._

_She’d read the document eagerly, her fingers leaving smudges of blood across the pages. A spidery hand flowed in a myriad of sightings, descriptions, theories and conspiracies, all pertaining to a nameless figure, a woman. The document was fronted by a letter, set out in the same precise and fluent script, but the language set it leagues apart._

>                 **_To all active agents within the province of Skyrim,_**
> 
> **_Enclosed you will find all the intelligence our organisation has collated on the suspect previously referred to as Imperial woman 2415. You should treat the capture of 2415 as a medium level concern._ **
> 
> **_Should you encounter 2415, further action should only be taken if it is judged that extraction can be achieved quietly, without witnesses. Upon capture, physical harm inflicted upon the prisoner is to be strictly avoided. She is to be transported directly to our representatives in Solitude, and a missive informing the embassy directly is to be sent at once without any delay. Should any damage be sustained by the prisoner, physical, phycological or sexual, then the perpetrators will be tried for high treason, sentenced and executed without exception._ **
> 
> **_Long may the Aldmeri Dominion be guided by the wisdom of the Thalmor_ **
> 
> **_Her eminence_ **
> 
> _**Ambassador Elenwen** _

_The dead could not bear witness to their attacker. It would be hours before their fates were discovered by an unfortunate messenger come to deliver fresh assignments. By the time they found the remains of their fellows, scavengers had moved in to pick at the softening flesh, and Serana was far away. She was ascending up the cliffs, where snow and ice scarred the same dark rocks that lay pebbled at the shore._

_She supposed that the elves would spend crucial time licking their wounds, and burying their dead, and that by the time they thought to trace the perpetrator of the slaughter, she would already be in the company of the woman she sought._

_Not for the first, and not for the last time, did Serana underestimate the workings of the Thalmor._

The tide of her clarity dragged her back from that lost shore, and she was once again trapped under the ever-scrutinising glare of the Bear King.

Maesa was at her side, pale and worried.

Serana had clearly missed the initial mention of some important topic, one she was expected to comment upon. She was being looked to for an opinion, one that seemed to divide the room.

“How do you consider the importance of our traditions, Lady Serana?” Ulfric repeated, noting her distraction with deep interest. “Surely you see important it is to sustain moral in such troubled times.”

When Maesa opened her mouth to interject, the Bear king silenced her with a hand, not even deigning to look at her as he said “No. I want to hear your companions opinion.”

Serana bristled, and at the same time felt a stab of nervous trepidation. She’d not heard the context of the question. How should she answer? How had Maesa answered? Steeling what remained of her wits, the older woman drew herself to sit straighter, resting her shoulders back, lifting her chin in a show of assertiveness.

“Traditions are to be respected, my Lord. They supply stability to the populous, providing an alternative focus and unity.”

This is what Ulfric wished to hear. And that is what they had to do, keep the Bear King happy till they could escape.

The would be King grinned in utter victory. “Precisely.” He concluded, in a manner in which he could not be more triumphant. “I see your friend and I are of one mind Maesa.”

Serana looked to Maesa. Her stomach plummeted when she saw the weary despair upon her face.

“I still have a say in such matters myself, my Lord.” The Imperial said quietly, her long fingers clasped tightly in her lap. “Traditions _do_ have their place. Festivals _are_ important points of relief in the calendar.”

“But, you still disapprove.” Ulfric concluded.

A ragged sigh escaped her, an exasperated hand moving to brush across the braids Serana had woven. The younger woman fixed the Lord within the gravity of her all possessing glare. “You are talking about a celebration which began with the burning of ‘heretical’ witches, by the orders of the Nine! You seem to want to brush the obvious similarities between such ‘traditions’ and the Thalmor aside.” Her voice was becoming a little elevated, her cheeks reddening with a flush of frustration. “And for what? A pretext for you to gather and corral your court. Of which I am not, nor ever have been, a part of.”

“All festivals hold their origins in our unsavoury past.” Ulfric reasoned. He looked at her as if he was driven to no greater response that to pity her lack of restraint, and her ignorance. “We must keep them alive so they can evolve past their origins.”

An involuntary hiccup of bitter mirth escaped Maesa, and she did not attempt to hide it. “So noble a pursuit then. All to drink your stores half dry and consume grotesque amounts of food.” So rarely had Serana seen the mask slip. Maesa was nearly always so measured, so thoughtful in her interactions with others. She’d come to wonder whether riling her was a talent she alone possessed.

Ulfric was showing Serana otherwise.

“You make it sound like an undesirable evening.” He smiled insufferably, shifting his weight to one side, propping his right foot on his left knee, and leaning his chin upon his fist. Why be present it seemed in an exchange he felt he was so easily directing.  

“You may fill your time, and waste your resources as you see fit. I am not here to counsel you.” Maesa’s words were short and sharp. “But you will not force me to be an accomplice to your scheming.”  

Within the span of the last word to leave Maesa’s lips, Serana saw the entire manner with which Ulfric conducted himself irrevocably shift. Muscles tensed, his back became erect, his eyes dark even in the steady illumination of the fire. At his pressed lips threats grew, only to be bitten down into grinding teeth, forced back by the vestige of an unstable façade of ease.

“I want you there Maesa, and you will be.”

Finally came the side of the Bear King that had been so whispered about.

It tipped Serana into her own rage. She bristled, her hackles quivering, her lips ready to part and bear her teeth for this arrogant idiot’s neck. Ready to take to her feet, shifting them to carry her to her full height, only to sweep down onto him.

Tersely a grip snared her wrist, keeping her down not by its strength, which she could effortlessly overcome. No. It halted her because Maesa had her fingers pressed to her unpulsing veins.

Serana remained seated.

“I could just leave.” Calmed, or at least feigning herself to be, Maesa glared at him. She was daring him. Every hold of her body, bar her restraint on Serana, echoed back his own ease. She was a bird he thought he’d caged. An easy beast to keep confined. Yet, in his avarice, he’d quite forgotten she could fly from the reach of his snares.

No effort could hide his tension now. So, without care, he abandoned it. He openly drew back his bearded mouth so that his teeth might show, shaping his lips into a terrible sneer. So here were the fangs of this would-be ruler. He denied her escape in three beats of his sharp tongue.

“You could try.”

A deep ache had hold of Serana’s joints, though it was background sound to her furry. Still she was held, and had she her right mind she would see the benefit in remaining calm.

She began to recite, living in her mind all the things she could do to this ‘King’ should he ever lay a hand upon Maesa.

To a lesser or bloodier extent, his rebellion would need a new leader.

“Is that all you wished to discuss my Lord.” Maesa’s knuckles had bleached on Serana’s wrist, the flesh of her lower arm quivering from the intensity of her hold. She tried her best to keep her struggles from her voice.

Contented that his threat had found purchase, certain it would shape their minds, the Bear king stood.

“Yes.” He said in utter nonchalance. “I believe we have come to an understanding.”

As easy as one might don a cloak, Ulfric slipped back into his effortless charm. “Have a pleasant evening.”

As he was leaving, half way to the door, he paused, and turned back briefly. “Tell me Serana, one more thing before I leave you in peace.” he began, his expression shadowed, his manner calm.

Serana bit back her retort, and waited silently for his question.

“Do the Nord’s of Bruma still manage to worship Talos?”

“Talos?”

A sharp intake of breath came from Maesa. Ulfric’s entire body seemed to at first faulter, as if he’d been tripped, and had only managed to catch himself out of habit rather than intent.

Then, he looked to Maesa. “Tomorrow, I expect you to explain to me just who you have brought into my hall. I will tolerate no more lies. You will attend the festival Maesa. I will know if you try to flee.”

With these final words he left. Closing the heavy door behind him.

Maesa stood, and anxiously began to pace.


	15. I see you

In a cloud of glittering dust, the packed snow thudded against the dark stones.

‘ _Nine_.’

She pressed another handful tightly into the bowl of her palm, squeezing the hardened clump before hurling it through the still air. 

‘There were _Nine_ divines.’

Thud.

A Nord from the border of Skyrim, in the city that ferried the Empire’s forces into the rebelling province, who didn’t know about the outlawed _ninth_ divine.

Thud.

Nearby, on the low slabs of long abandoned graves, Maesa watched the expanding pattern of Serana’s rage upon the wall of the district. It was erratically elaborate.

Thud.

She dipped her chin and pressed her face lightly into the furs at her throat, hiding her weariness as she sighed a deep yawn.

Serana saw her none the less.

Thud.

Ulfric had placed a curfew upon the upper city. At every exit stood a guard. They were not leaving tonight.

Thud.

It was late. Above the clouds the stars dusted the night-sky, crested with shimmers of gold, silver, and ice blue. It was getting colder, a light silent flurry had left a scattering of snow upon the tombs that concealed them, softening the already time-worn edges. They should go back, and sleep.

But Serana’s rage was still prickling at the tips of her fingers. She still wanted to scratch the smirk from Ulfric's slacken face.

So, they stayed.

Thud.

“It’s not your fault.” Maesa’s voice was quiet from beneath her hood.

Serana could feel her pale eyes watching her.

Thud.

“I suppose it’s just never come up before for us to have talked about.” The Imperial tugged at the hem of her skirts, batting away the glitter of the icy debris that clung there. Seemed like she hadn’t sat quite far enough away enough to avoid the drifting powder which accompanied Serana’s barrage.

Thud.

She looked down wistfully at her gloved hands, at how the melting snow left smudges of moisture along the finely stitched seams. “I’m sorry.” Maesa began, flexing her cold muscles slowly. “I…”

“Don’t say your sorry.”

Pale eyes found her in an instant, gloved hand curled in her lap, frozen mid motion.

Serana sighed deeply. Standing straight she abandoned the handful of snow she had gathered. She pressed her own frosty hands into the tight skin of her humming forehead. She hadn’t meant to snap at her. She hadn’t meant to do a lot of things lately.

They hadn’t seen another living soul for what felt like hours. Most of the citizens were likely in their beds. Another fleeting scattering of snow began to fall, the flakes small and wet. Before long it would likely melt into a misty rain.

She tried to breathe slowly. She counted to three between each push and pull of her long dead lungs. Her rage was stagnating, settling back into the dark waters. A few more hours and she might regain some measure of calm.

If Maesa didn’t freeze to death first.

A groan of frustration escaped her from between tightly clenched teeth.

“Damn that bastard to Cold Harbour’s frigid waters for all the eternities in existence!” It came out in a breathless hiss. Needing to do anything other than stand still, Serana reached down to gather another handful of snow. She pounded at it, shaping it into a lump she could imagine looked like his head, then she threw it with every screaming voice of anger in her being.

Thud.

A white smear encrusted the damp stone, no different from the myriad that already dotted the surface, but holding just a slither of greater satisfaction for her. Because just for a moment, in her mind, it had looked like him.

Then it was gone. Her anger and rage slipping away from her limp fingers. It was gone, and all that stood before her was a patchwork of her shameful lack of restraint.

Serana felt her legs crumple beneath her, landing heavily in the hollow of thinning snow she had created. Hundreds of points marked the wall. Hundreds of screams of rage. Hundreds of images of murder, of blood, and of violence.

All looking back at her, wordlessly.

“Serana?”

She felt her touch her shoulder. Gentle, soft, all heat robbed away by the gloves she wore, but in the gesture alone, in its kindness, Serana could still feel the ghost of warmth.

Heavy skirts rustled as Maesa sank down beside her, sending up little wisps of powdered ice. She waited for Serana to speak, a hand resting on the older woman shoulder.

With dry lips and a trembling tongue, Serana surrendered, letting the words she hadn't acknowledged in a long time come. “I used to think it was because of the change. That somehow the… _exchange_ with…”

Memories snaked into her mind, and Serana’s body shook. Maesa found her hands, picking them up from where they limply lay in the snow, and held them in her lap, squeezing them tightly.

She forced herself to continue, her gaze fixed onto the wall. “That it left some vestige of _him_ behind. A seed of rot, of rage. But you don’t receive _his blessing_ by being good.”

Maesa leant closer to hear her as Serana’s voice dropped to a haunted, empty whisper.

“We paid for this _blessing_ in blood. Murder. Violence. In rage. It would be easy to blame in on _him_. On his foul seed. But I don’t know if I can anymore.” A dry sob that made Serana’s body heave forced her to fall forwards onto the snow.

Maesa pulled her up into her arms.

“I don’t know.” She whimpered, holding the tide back with withering muscles as Maesa’s painfully gentle fingers stroked her hair. “I don’t think I can be good, Maesa. I don’t know if I can be kind. I don’t know if I can even love anyone any more. I don’t know if I ever could of. I don’t know if I deserve to be loved. I murdered the elves in that fort near home.”

For a single heartbeat Maesa’s hands stilled, but Serana could not stop the words from flowing.

“I didn’t know how to find you. I didn’t know your name. I could have searched for years. I didn’t even know where to begin. I needed to find you. I needed… I didn’t even take their blood. I just left them. Dying. Dead. I needed to find you. I needed to have a reason to… I needed… I’m sorry Maesa. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Tears streamed from her eyes. Sharp, frozen tears, filled with something she’d not felt for years, decades, before her mother locked her away. But it was a bitter bile she’d tasted so often since waking. Regret.

Serana buried her face into fabric of Maesa’s clothes, already damp from her tears. If she was going to leave, if she was going to walk away and never look back, Serana would spend all her remaining energies soaking in the memory of her. Her warmth, the curves of her body, her scent. Maybe she could conjure the ghost of her in the silence, the echo of her voice.

Snow fell softly around them. Large floating feathers that sank to the ground in a soundless waltz.

On the edge of the newly birthed breeze Maesa began to speak. Barely loud enough to hear over the press of silence.

“When I was 13 there was a riot in the city, men and women were killing each other in the streets. I tripped in the gutter, my dress was soaked in blood by the time I got to my feet. I ran through the chaos, but I couldn’t find my way back to the temple. There were too many people screaming. Somewhere something was burning, sending up smoke that made my eyes stream and my lungs burn. I found an alleyway, and hid behind a pile of refuse, pressing myself into the wall of the building as the screaming got closer.

“I’d closed my eyes. Hid my face in my faces, smearing the blood and filth from the gutter across my cheeks. I thought Nayr-Keth would be so angry at me for ruining my clothes. When someone grabbed my arm I screamed and kicked at them, not daring to look. I thought they would kill me for certain. That it would take so small an effort on their part that they’d kill me and toss me aside and forget about me before my bones hit the cobbles on the street.

“She didn’t kill me. The woman who had found me picked me up, and carried me back to the temple, walking through the fighting and the killings like they were beneath her notice.

“Nayr-Keth was angry about the dress, but she was far happier that I was alright. She offered the woman a bed at the temple, sanctuary whilst the guards quelled the violence outside. The woman, Ranosa, stayed. She was the only Dunmer in the temple, and largely kept to herself, avoiding everyone. Sometimes I caught her praying at the shrine, late at night, when I should have been asleep in my bed.

“One-night Nayr-Keth found me watching Ranosa as she prayed. Rather than punish me for disobeying the rules, she took my hand, and we walked up to where Ranosa knelt…”

 

_“You come here almost every night.” The old khajiit matriarch murmured as she approached the kneeling woman. “Does the divine Mother grant you comfort?”_

_When Ranosa looked up at her she saw the pale eyed child, peaking out at her sheepishly from behind the priestess._

_‘Pretty little thing.’ She thought, smiling warmly at her as she gave a hesitant little wave. “I don’t think Mother Mara has much time for the likes of me.” She said aloud, lifting her crimson eyes to meet the Khajiit’s._

_“The Mother has time for all her children.” Nayr-Keth intoned taking a seat on one of the pews, groaning a little as her legs bent underneath her. “Don’t get too old.” She chuckled, lifting the child up onto her lap when she came to her. “It’s not good for the mortal body to get too old.”_

_Ranosa smirked at the strange comment, taking a seat on the cold flagstones, moving a respectable distance away from the spot reserved for the kneeling supplicants before the shrine. “I’ll take it on as words to live by.”_

_A deep rumbling purr of laughter made the High priestess smile for a moment, the child looking between the two adults, confused and annoyed that she had obviously missed the joke. Nayr-Keth nuzzled her pout away with her broad nose, lifting a sleepy giggle from the girl, before she turned her attention back to the woman on the floor._

_“What is it that you think makes you so unworthy of being heard?”_

_Ranosa watched as the little girl snuggled into the warmth of the High Priestesses breast, and felt a sad little smile pull at her lips._

_“I made a mistake.” She explained quietly, looking away when those pale eyes looked down at her. “I made a big mistake.”_

_The old Khajiit’s brow piqued, lifting the tawny fur above her blue eyes up to brush at the base of her large ears. “I suspect its more than a little fight at the Inn, or a stolen sweet roll.”_

_Another mirthless little laugh escaped Ranosa as she looked down at her hands, seeing nothing but the blood she had on them when the moons light from the high windows fell across the scars. “You could say that.” She said softly, flexing her clean fingers._

_Nayr-Keth hummed, thinking as she slowly rocked the dozing child in her arms, much as she had done since the day she was born._

_Ranosa drew her knees up to her chest, knowing deep down that if the priestess knew what she’d done she wouldn't have let her stay in the temple. If Mara had known what she’d done, how many people she’d killed in the name of ending the cult of killers, only to try and save the woman who led them in the hopes of saving her…_

_Her head sank down till her brows touched the peeks of her knees. If the goddess of Love knew what she’d done she’d cast her soul to the realms of Oblivion for the rest of eternity._

_“Are you the same woman you were when you made your mistake?” The old Khajiit asked._

_Ranosa blinked, trying to drive away the wash of dizziness as she’d looked up too quickly. “Of course.” She frowned._

_“Did the woman you were before your mistake know it was a mistake?”_

_“She…” The Dunmer corrected herself. “I didn’t think about the consequences. I should have known what would happen. How many people I’d… What was likely to happen.”_

_“Did you know what was going to happen?”_

_“I…” Ranosa paused, searching for a way to not agree, for the flaw in her words. “No. But I knew it was wrong. I knew it meant I had to… It could never have ended without bloodshed.”_

_In the quiet that followed the scent of candle wax reached the Dunmer. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was familiar, it reminded her of home, her mothers apothecary shop, of sweet rosemary drying in bunches, tied with brown string. The bitter tang of peppercorn dust, marjoram and thyme squeezed into a glinting golden oil. The whine of the battered black kettle, steaming with spiced tea that made her tongue tingle. Shafts of dusty light casting warm patterns upon the scratched surface of the work bench. Her mother’s hands, her rough grey palms cupping her smaller hands, guiding her as she stirred the contents of the cauldron. Ruffling her white curls when she brought her handfuls of mountain flowers still wet with morning dew._

_“We are only ever who we are in the moment.” Nayr-keth said softly, seeing the other woman’s eyes wet with tears. “We cannot control what we have done. We cannot reach into the past and undo what has been done. We only have the now, the moment at our feet, to decide who we are. It will not wait forever.”_

_Ranosa tried to draw in enough air to satisfy her burning lungs, to breathe, to think. To remember the reason she was sat on the floor of Mara’s temple. She remembered her face. Her copper hair, the tips soaking up the blood beneath her body. Her golden eyes, looking up at her, waiting for the last breath she’d ever take. Pleading that Ranosa make it come after her fathers, that Ranosa kill the man who’d murdered her, murdered her mother. Murder the man who’d made the murderer._

_“At some point our now becomes our past and we cannot change it. We cannot save who we were, we cannot punish who we were. We can only punish who we are. We can only save who we are.”_

_Nayr-Keth watched as the woman’s shoulders began to quiver. She smiled softly._

_“The woman who didn’t know what you know did something wrong. She, You made a mistake. She wears the guilt of hindsight. Let her die, child. Let her go. Let her live in her own time. Don’t lose the woman you are, and can still be, wither by clinging to who you were.”_

_The Khajiit stood, lifting the drowsy child in her arms easily, too easily for an old woman, but Ranosa did not notice._

_Nayr-Keth looked down at her. She smiled, her finely furred featured filled with a gentle, motherly love. “She couldn’t let her past go.”_

_Ranosa looked up through her tears, mouth slack, eyes wide._

_“Don’t make the same mistake Alisanne made.”_

 

“Nayr-Keth let her stay in the temple, as a healer. She’s a good Alchemist.” Maesa said softly, her long fingers stroking through Serana’s dark locks.

Serana was still and silent, clutching her tightly, afraid to let go.

“Ranosa taught me how to use a bow. She left the temple with me when the Thalmor came. She's never said who Alisanne was, I've never asked.”

Serana felt her kiss the top of her head.

“Let her go Serana.” Maesa whispered into her hair, her breath warm across her brow. “Let her be who she was. Be who you are in this moment.”

Through her stemming tears Serana looked up at her, unsteady, her neck shaking under the strain of lifting her head.

Maesa lay her palms upon her cheeks, gazing down at her with her pale grey eyes. “I see you, Serana.” She said, her voice firm, but her hold so tender, as if she were sheltering moth between her fingers. “You are good. You are kind. You are not your parents. You are not who you were all those years ago. And you are definitely not Molag Bal.”

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She just had to be, to exist. There, in that moment. With her.

“I see you. And you are worthy of so much love.”

Fresh tears made her eyes heavy, she didn’t know what to do, how to speak, or move.

Serana sobbed, and Maesa held her till she could find no more tears. Then she held her till Serana had strength enough to stand. Then they walked, hand in hand, towards the exist to the graveyard district.

Then, from the shadow of the tombs, he followed.


	16. The White Phial

“You’re out awfully late this evening.”

The women stopped, the steps up to the entrance of the district just in front of them. They looked behind, past the monuments and murals, searching for the man who had spoken, who they had not noticed follow them.

He stood a few paces from Maesa, donned in a thick winter cloak, his dark hair dusted with the snowfall, his high pinched Imperial features drawn back in a friendly smile. He stood casually, his hip resting against the waist high slab of a long dead Nord, her name obscured by the snow.

“It’s dangerous for two young women to be wandering the street these days.” He nodded to the two of them.

Serana had scrubbed her eyes free of tears before they’d stood to leave, but still her sight was foggy, she couldn’t quite make out his face in the dim light, she couldn’t quite see him.

Maesa, whose arm was threaded through hers, offered the man a polite bob of her head, wearing her own charming smile. “We were just heading indoors.” She explained, her body beside Serana’s was warm and comforting. “I suppose the time just got away from us.”

The stranger stepped away from the tomb. “I could escort you back, if you like?” He gave a little bow, his cloak folding slightly with the gesture.

Serana caught the glint of a pommel at his belt.

“We are fine, thank you.” Maesa's hold on Serana almost imperceptibly tightened. “There are enough guards wandering the city tonight, it should be quite safe.”

“The guards are only making sure people stay inside the walls.” The man said, taking another step closer. “They’re not patrolling the streets.”

Steadily, Maesa unwound their arms, her hand slipping down to disappear beneath the folds of her own cloak. Her pale eyes glinted. “Is that where Susanna died?”

The stranger’s mouth did not change, but his smile did. It ceased to be friendly, it creased into something cruel, something vicious.

“Yes.” He said, not looking back at the slab of cold stone.

“I knew Susana.” The Imperial woman replied quietly.

Serana let a lick of ice flicker down her fingers, hiding the crackle as she shifted her body, coiling, ready to spring. She heard the creak of leather as Maesa gripped the hilt of her dagger sheathed at her hip.

“She was kind to me. She was an insufferable flirt, but she was a good listener too.” There was little sadness in Maesa’s words as she said them, there was only a calm, controlled rage. “She was one of the last Nord’s here who listened, who might have kept them from tearing they’re neighbours apart. And you _butchered_ her on that slab.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t look at Serana. He didn’t seem to remember she was there. He only had eyes for Maesa, and those eyes were dark with the smudges of sleepless nights, weary. But there was a bright glimmer to them. A light that danced erratically. A madness, a hunger.

“You look so much like my _Lucilla_.”

The groan of the man’s voice made Serana’s flesh crawl, her stomach lurch, sending thick viscous acid to scorch her throat. His smile had shifted again. It was still cruel, but now it seemed to ooze a slick slathering desire.

She snatched forward, moving in front of Maesa, snapping her arm up, her fingers forward, the ice crackling as the shards there gathered, ready to fly for the creature before them. To carve that smile from his face.

A scratch seared across the palm of Serana’s hand, and at once her muscles fell slack. She managed to look back at Maesa as her body gave out under her, only to be met by confusion and terror.

As soon as she hit the icy ground the shallow mark began to throb, then burn, coursing under her skin and spreading out tiny tendrils of magma. She screamed. When she managed to look down at her twisting limb she saw the skin on her hand was turning black around the slightest of cuts.

The stranger was above her. He looked down at her with a smug glower across his slick mouth. There was a slim blade in his free hand, no more than a kitchen knife. It’s edge glistened with her blood, tinged with a thick black liquid.

A second blade cut through the air, its wicked edge clean until it sliced deep into the man’s throat.

Hot dark blood sprayed out from the yawning slit. The kitchen knife slipped to the ground, abandoned. He began to press at his neck, clenching his fingers over the fissure, unsuccessfully trying to stem the blood. It streamed out from between his fingers. The muscles were let loose by the wound, and as they were pushed by the pressure, they bulged. He screamed, though it reached out into the icy air in silence.

Above the man’s curling form Maesa stood, her dagger in her hand. With the heel of her boot she kicked into the tender joint of his ankle. There was a crunch and soft grinding. Another scream, this one managing only the most pathetic of whimpers. The man collapsed into the stained snow like saturated parchment.

Her own agonies made Serana’s eyes stream, yet through her tears watched as Maesa knelt next to the man. Her grey eyes were glassy as they drifted from his hands, holding in his own throat, to his face, and back again. She held the tip of her dagger, the knife that had silenced his, to the centre of his chest, to the space above his heart. Her grip on the handle was firm.

“You murdered six women.” She pronounced, clear, calm and as cold as the stars. “You tried to kill me. You’ve hurt someone very dear to me. If you want the world to know your last thoughts speak them now, before you die. I could prevent it, but I will not. You let the monster you were be the person you are. That man does not deserve the mercy he never showed others.”

Vapours rose from the hot blood as it reached the ice.

The man’s struggles were still strong enough to grab at Maesa. He seized a fistful of her dress, pulled her down close to him, even as the effort brought a further gush of his ever dimishing blood from his throat. Through trembling lips that spat, and through wet, gargled words, he gave his last mortal thoughts to her, livid ferocity clenched between his teeth.

“I saw you in my dreams! You took Lucilla’s face. Divines curse you for looking like her! I was so close.” He hiccupped a choke of blood. It slashed across Maesa’s face. She didn’t even flinch. He might have been trying to laugh, but it was impossible to tell. “We’ll be waiting for you. We’ll kill you again in Aetherius.”

“You have no place in Aetherius.” Maesa whispered calmly. “Your soul belongs to someone else now.”

A change came over the dying man’s face, a stillness. His eyes grew almost impossibly wide, his mouth opened but was unable to form any words. Panic, fear lived there. In those last moments, in his last breath, perhaps he realised what he had done.

Then, it was over. His eyes rolled to an obsolete angle, his lips stopped quivering, and the grip on Maesa’s dress fell away.

With two crimson fingers she closed his eyes.

Serana clutched at herself, madly, blindly. She bit back a scream into a whimper. Grasping at her hand, raking her nails across it, but she was unable to touch the pain.

At once the Imperial found the mad man’s disguarded blade from amidst the slush, testing the edge with her gloved hand. She sniffed at the dark substance that coated it, testing its consistency between her finger and thumb. Recognition flared up in her eyes. Wrapping the knife in the infected garment she rushed to Serana side.

Serana openly wept. The pain was spreading fast. She felt her bones crack and splinter. Her brain sweat. Her veins pull taught, tearing the flesh around them.

Maesa’s arm was around her shoulders, her hand pressing to her damp cheek, awkwardly palming it in hopes of offering some comfort. Serana pushed her away blindly. She wanted it to stop, that was all. She was in agony. She was scared.

Fighting with her anxious limbs, battling to get to the source of the pain, Maesa began to plead with her. “I know my dear. I know it hurts, but please.” She tried to kiss her cheek, her lips smeared with blood. “Serana I need you to be still, I can’t…”

Torchlight, voices, were approaching them now. The sound of footsteps in the snow.

“Maesa?” A man Serana could barely see stood before them, young, pale, his features drawn back as he saw the dead man. “What in the Emperors name…?” He began, but was interrupted as Serana cried out again.

“Quintus!” Maesa practically sobbed with relief. “Help me! She’s been poisoned.”

“Where’s the blade?” The young man asked, taking the carefully wrapped weapon from Maesa when she offered it up.

More footsteps were coming. Guards, shouting and drawing their swords.

Maesa kept whispering to Serana as she thrashed and wailed, her voice ever gentle but marked with growing fear.

Quintus was arguing with the guard, pointing to the dead man, then to them.

“If the people find _this_ here they’ll be a riot!” The young man shouted flinging his shaking hands in the direction of the steaming body. “You want to do something useful? Carry the woman to my store and seal of the district.”

It took one too many moments for the guards to agree, all the while, Serana tore at her own skin, fighting the pain.

Then, they were moving, Maesa holding her uninjured hand as the armoured guards hauled her up into the air.

“I’ll get Niranye!” Quintus called to Maesa as they moved away from the tombs.

Maesa nodded grimly.

Behind them, in the slush and dirt, stained by the blood, the head of Calixto Corrium rolled to the side. Dead eyes watched the departing women. Watched the Imperial woman. 

The remaining guards had moved to secure the area. They didn’t see the slit at the corpses neck part and curl, shape itself like two monstorous lips. No body heard the hiss that left that twisted ‘mouth’.

_“You’ll scream for me. I’ll have you again and again. I’ll tear you open. My body will make you bleed.”_

When next the guards came to check on the corpse, with Helgrid the priestess of Arkay in tow, the body was still, and silent. Around the cut that had ended the man’s life, the skin was burnt, cracked, blackened and charred.

 

* * *

 

Quintus Navale looked between the woman on the bed and Maesa in utter numbing confoundment.

“She’s…” He swung his eyes to the deathly pale stranger, the growing dark stain on her hand, the erratic mumblings of her mouth.

“Yes.” Maesa said, her freshly scrubbed hand pressed to the pale woman’s brow, worry marring her pretty face.

The young alchemist heard Niranye return, her hurried footsteps bounding across the shop to the tiny staircase below them.

“And you’re…”

“I’m not enthralled.” The Imperial woman finished for him, standing straight, tying her long black hair back so it wouldn’t fall in front of her face.

“Is he still grappling with it?” The Altmer asked as she entered the room. Niranye, offered Quintus a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she passed him.

“Yes.” Maesa gave a small smile in greeting, but it was forced, and weary. “How are things out there?” She asked, coming to stand beside her as Niranye placed her burden on the workbench.

She lifted the lid and began to pull out various phials, the contents plinking against the thin glass. “Bad.” She murmured, placing the selection in front of Maesa. “They won’t be able to contain it at this rate.”

Maesa’s gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. “Why couldn’t that mad man have been a Nord?”

“Calixto was always a little bit odd.” The Altmer mused below her breath as she held a container up to the light, the powder within glowing softly when she shook it. “Never met Lucilla. She died long before I came to Skyrim I imagine.”

“He said I looked like her.”

“He was mad Maesa, you said as much yourself.”

A bitter bark of laughter made her shoulders shake. “And he killed Nord women to bring back an Imperial.” She dropped her head down, till her chin rested on her chest. In I a small quiet voice she gave a grim prediction. “Windhelm’s streets will run red before the week is out.”

Niranye placed her long golden fingers over her trembling fist, looking at her friend with a sad smile. “Come.” She soothed. “We’ve got what we need now, let’s help your friend.”

Maesa nodded stiffly, pushing herself away from the table.

Quintus seemed to have gotten over the worst of his bewilderment. He was peering at the kitchen knife. The blade that had cut Serana.

“How on Nirn did he even get his hands on half these ingredients.” He mused twisting the knife till the poison laced blade caught the meagre light. It grinned wickedly back at him, blackened teeth glinting.

Quintus blinked, shaking his head, and the image from his mind. He put the knife on the side table and moved to join the women. The blade watched their backs, hungry.

Upon the table before them were dozens of tiny phials, each a unique shape and size to suit the ingredients within.

“Imp Stool, Bleeding Crown, Deathbell, and Spadetail scales.” Niranye listed, looking down at each of the ingredients that made up the poison in Serana’s veins. “Assuming she’ll react in the same way a mortal would…”

“Being a vampire.” Quintus murmured over her shoulder.

Niranye sighed. “Yes. Being a vampire.” She shook her head, her peach coloured locks swaying lightly. “We just need to counteract each poison.”

Maesa carefully reached past her, selecting one of the ingredients, placing it beside the phial containing a part of the poison. “Yellow Mountain flower, for the Deathbell.” She explained.

The others nodded in agreement.

“Grass pod seeds, for the Imp Stool.” Niranye added, the seeds rattling as she moved the phial.

“Troll fat for Bleeding crown.” Quintus moved the appropriate item, the lumpy white paste glistening in the lantern light. “Which leaves the Spadetail…” He trailed off, his brow crinkling into a deep frown.

The women fell silent as first one then the other one looked to the last ingredient, two cream coloured cloves starring back at them blankly.

A wracked groan from the bed drew Maesa’s focus away for a moment as she looked over her shoulder. Serana had begun to toss in her delirium again. The Imperial moved to comfort her, brushing the icy sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

Quintus glanced at them, then back to the table. “It’s just an old wive’s tale.” He proclaimed, though his words lacked all confidence. "Right?"

Niranye winced as Serana gave a low whimper. “I’m not sure.” She uttered, looking to Maesa a few moments later when she returned to them.

Her skin was drawn too tightly around her jaw and there were dark patches beneath her eyes. With a shaky hand she rubbed the back of her neck, looking down at the substance in question. “It’s never come up.” She frowned. “But it wouldn’t make any sense for it to have a negative effect. Would it?”

She looked to them, pleading for some slither of hope, only to be met with nervous shrugs.

Sighing she took up the phial, pulled the stopper out and tipped one of the cloves onto her palm. “One way to find out.” She whispered to herself, walking back to the bed.

As Maesa looked down at her a clawed talon constricted around her chest, pressing her ribs against her lungs, squeezing painfully at her heart. She forced her eyes shut, bidding the tears to stay away, taking a moment to remember how to breathe. After a few seconds she bent down, taking the delicate little clove, and touched it to the back of Serana’s uninjured hand.

Nothing.

A shaky sigh left her in a rush, and she passed the garlic clove to Niranye. The Altmer began to prepare the ingredients at once, cutting the petals of the yellow bloom, crushing the seeds, working quickly and efficiently.

Finding she had no more strength to stand Maesa sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in front of her, head bowed low.

Quintus brought her some tea, its steam coiling up into the air from the small earthen ware vessel. When Maesa inhaled the steam she could taste honey and Juniper berries on the back of her tongue. She thanked him quietly, sipping the concoction as she watched over Serana’s fitful dreams.

“Here.” Niranye touched her shoulder gently, handing her the finished antidote when she turned around.

Maesa exchanged the now empty cup for it, the thick glass of the bottle warm to her touch.

 _‘Please, mother Mara.’_ She intoned as she stood and moved to the head of the bed.

Then she stopped.

“What is it?” Quintus asked, glancing between her, Serana and the potion bottle held tightly in her hand.

Maesa did not answer. Instead she walked back over to the workbench, searching the scattering of tools for the one she needed. Another thought occurred to her as she picked the unused knife up, it’s sharp edge glinting.

“Did the boy bring our things?” She asked, wasting no more time, rolling up the sleeve of her dress.

Niranye raised a concerned brow. “I saw your satchel on the counter downstairs when I came up.” She looked at the smooth expanse of Maesa’s arm, then at the knife in her hands. “Do you really think that is necessary?”

Maesa’s stormy grey eye’s fixed on her. “Yes.” She said. “I do.”

“This is madness.” Quintus muttered, but went to fetch Maesa’s satchel all the same.

The Altmer stood before Maesa, searching her face, her golden lips pressed tightly together. “Is she worth it Maesa?” She asked quietly.

The young Imperial would not look away, would not drop her gaze. “Yes.” She said, gripping the handle of the small apothecary’s knife tightly. “She is.”

Quintus returned with the satchel after a minute or so, the White Phial already unstoppered, cradled safely in one hand.

“I guessed.” He offered when surprise came briefly over Maesa’s face. “It’s not how I would have used it, but it’s not mine to use.”

“Thank you.” Maesa took the phial from him, holding it tenderly, its white crystal surface awash with the reflections of the room, the three of them, and Serana.

Niranye huffed. “Let’s find a funnel.” She grumbled, brushing off Maesa’s thanks when she offered it. “It would be idiotic to spill some on the floor after all this.”

The cut they made was clean, deep enough for the blood to flow freely across Maesa’s skin. Together they gathered enough to fill the White Phial up to the brim, then, sealing it and setting it aside, they added four drops to the antidote.

Maesa shook the bottle, mixing the potion as best she could, her arm bandaged neatly.

The Altmer and the other Imperial watched from the foot of the bed as Maesa sat, leaning across Serana, brushing the damp hair on her forehead aside.

 _‘Please.’_ She prayed, gently lifting the vampires head into her lap. _‘Mara, Kynareth. Goddesses of healing, of love, of mercy. Please, let this work.’_ Carefully Maesa pressed the lip of the bottle to Serana’s trembling mouth, kissed her forehead one more time, lingering for a quiet moment. Then she tipped the contents of the bottle down Serana's throat, and waited.

 


	17. Long Days

_“Do you want to know what I think?” Elenwen paced around the rack. In her wake her robes swayed, with every measured step. Back and forth, a black pendulum trimmed with fringes of garish gold._

_The metal restraints bit their burred teeth sharply into her as she pulled the chains taut. Her wrists were raw and seeping. She’d rubbed the skin down to a foul mess, oozing damp flesh that stung with every movement._

_“Leave her!” She begged, voice cracking in the echo of the stone walled chamber._

_She was ignored._

_Elenwen’s steps took her to stand before the rope bound woman. The Altmer had made sure that everything that was about to happen was directly within her sight. With a sly smirk, the elf retrieved a long carpenters nail from the little table beside the bed. She held it so that all in that cold room might be able to see it._

_The chained prisoner pulled at the metal, pleaded with the world to let her free. For Akatosh to stop time. For Mara to blunt the desire to cause pain._

_Her bonds held her as they had always done. And her prayers went unanswered._

_“Why would I leave her, my dear lady?” The Thalmor asked. “What would be the point in you being here? Why would I have brought you here if it were to do nothing? No. I must follow through with intent or all this will have been pointless.” She placed her golden hand upon the soft belly of the limp woman on the bed._

_The thick rope held her still, tied at the ankle and wrist. She made no move to resist. She couldn’t bear the strength required any longer to fight the haze in her mind. She merely whimpered as Elenwen’s provocative touch traced an unknown pattern over her skin, shrinking back from the coming blow._

_“Please!” The chained woman pleaded. “Please, don’t.”_

_Elenwen pushed the tip of the nail into the deep laceration under her right breast._

_Maesa screamed, choking it as best she could, to limit Elenwen’s satisfaction._

 

* * *

 

Serana was chased from her nightmares by the shadow of a knife with blackened teeth.

She gasped, eyes wide, awaking with a lurch.

“Maesa!” She breathed, sitting up sharply.

The world began to sway, undulating around her in irregular swells and eddies that rocked her empty stomach.

A tall Altmer woman watched her from a chair positioned beside the bed, her expression was guarded. The vampire was aware she should recognise her but couldn’t place her name.

Serana blinked a few times, holding a trembling hand to her head, and when she was sure she wasn’t going to throw up she spoke.

“Where is Maesa?”

The woman pointed a long finger towards a small door, on the other side of the unfamiliar room. “She’s with Quintus downstairs. She’ll be back in a minute.” There was no intentional reassurance to be found in her voice, but the Altmer was not unkind when she peered closely at Serana and asked, “How’s the hand?”

When Serana caught the words, unscrambled them in her tumbled mind, she looked to where her hand lay on the blankets that covered her legs. The world swam a little bit more as she tried to focus on it, but she forced down the nausea as best she could. Her skin was as pale and flawless as it had always been on the back of her hand, but when she turned it slowly over to inspect the other side she found a short black mark, the thickness of her little finger, pulling the pads of her palm towards an unnatural peak at the centre.

“We don’t know if it will fade.” The Altmer woman explained as Serana starred at it. “Honestly I would have thought someone like you could shake off poison pretty easily. Oh, don’t look so surprised, Maesa told me and Quintus as soon as we got you here and sent the guards away.”

Serana remained quiet for a moment, then, slowly her memory trickled back to her. “You’re… Niranye.”

The Altmer nodded.

“And Quintus… was the man who found us in the graveyard, after…” Serana looked back up to Niranye. “Did he hurt her? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine Serana.” Something close to a smile crossed the woman’s face, but she seemed too tired to wear it, so let it slip into a sigh. “She’s worn out though. Hasn’t stopped since last night. And the cities only getting worse.”

“What’s happening?” Serana asked, shifting back to rest against the wall at the head of the bed. Her mind was still foggy, but it was clearing now, slowly.

Niranye fixed her with a measuring look, deciding on something in Serana’s hazed expression before speaking further. “That man, the one who attacked you last night, he’s been picking off women in the city for the last few months now. He killed the serving girl from Candlehearth hall the day after you arrived.”

Serana remembered. The tall blonde woman on the stone slab in the graveyard. The one the messenger had said looked like Maesa.

“Windhelm’s a den of dry rotten timber when it comes to friction between the races. Been that way since Ulfric started his rebellion apparently. Awful lot of disgruntled veterans from the Great War came home broken in both body and mind, found themselves in a Skyrim that didn’t seem quite right to them anymore, looking for someone to blame. Ulfric gave them a cause to fight for, and an enemy to fight. Only problem is controlling that hatred is allot more difficult that letting it loose.”

Whilst Niranye spoke she played with the sleeves of her dress, the white fabric stained and ragged, tiny flecks of what looked like dried blood dotting it in a peculiar pattern.

“Calixto, the man who attacked you, didn’t only attack Nord women. Six women died altogether, there names wouldn’t mean anything to you, but they were good people. One of them, Naalia Arentino, she had a little boy. He couldn’t understand why his mother had left him, couldn’t understand why he had to go to the orphanage down it Riften.”

The Altmer drew in a long shaky breath, closing her eyes for a long moment before she continued.

“He didn’t only kill Nord women, but that’s won’t matter. What will matter is that he wasn’t a Nord himself. He wasn’t a Nord, and he decided to go on a killing spree in a city that’s been fed on hatred for the other races for almost thirty years.”

Niranye opened her golden eyes. “Strangest thing isn’t it.” A threadbare chuckle left her worn face in a raspy cough. “Out of the four of us, you’ll be the only one who safe in Windhelm after word gets out. They’ll lynch every man, woman and child in the city before they even look twice at the vampire.”

“You think it will get that bad?” Serana asked quietly.

“I know it will.”

She looked down to the mark on her hand. She remembered the feel of ice as she’d pressed all of her rage into the snow. She remembered the marks on the wall. She remembered the hatred she felt when, for a moment, she’d seen Ulfric’s face and hurled the packed snow into the stones. She remembered that beat of intoxicating satisfaction as she’d dashed his ‘head’ against the wall.

“Is there anyway to escape the city?”

The mirth that came from Niranye this time was closer to genuine, not quite cheerful, but satisfied with what she heard. “That’s what they’re working on downstairs. Calder came by with Voldsea a little while ago. I think they’re coming with us.”

“Calder?” Serana could not stop the surprise from entering her voice. The Captain was a soldier, and a Nord besides, surely he of all people would be safe.

“That lug wouldn’t let Voldsea stay in the city for all the mead in the province, and that idiot pirate wouldn’t leave without him.” There was genuine affection in Niranye’s voice when she spoke, and for the first time a smile, fragile but true, broke out across her face. “I don’t think they would have stayed in Windhelm much longer anyway. This city isn’t the place for an elf lover.”

All the nervous responses, all the averted gazes and answer dodging, all because the captain of the guard was involved with a mer. Serana swallowed down the bitter disappointment in her mouth. She wasn’t sure why. Why she was so disappointed. It wasn’t everyone, it wasn’t every Nord who felt this way. Calder was proof of that. Besides, since when had she thought herself a part of her race and not an undead vampire first.

“Where is it that we plan to go?” She asked in the hopes of distracting the disquieting questions that churned in her mind.

“I think Maesa plans for you two to go to Morthal.” Niranye said. “As for us? Winterhold I imagine. Closest place we can reach that’s not Stormcloak territory. Using Voldsea’s boat it shouldn’t take us more than two days.”

Serana nodded. The college of Winterhold had been around when she was a girl, the only place in Skyrim to study magic. There had once been the suggestion that she go there to study, but that possibility had disappeared once her parents had found their true calling.

She’d like to see the college someday. Maybe they could go there once matters settled again, she and Maesa.

There came quiet footsteps on the stairs, and a short while later the small door across the room creaked open.

Had she not been certain that she would fall as soon as stand, Serana would have leapt from bed and gone to the woman at the door in a moment. As it was, she had to content herself with watching, a grin so broad upon her face that it made her cheeks ache, as Maesa came immediately to the bedside.

“You’re awake.” Maesa sighed happily, moving to sit, only for Serana to wrap her arms around her and draw her tightly into an embrace.

The younger woman stiffened for just a moment before she let her body relax, melting into her, resting her cheek against the curve of Serana’s shoulder.

Niranye left quietly, taking the starring Quintus, who had come up the stairs behind Maesa, back down to the shop below.

Serana took deep steady breaths. She smelt of potions, the tickle of powered bonemeal, sweet smoky dried lavender, the tang of pine resin. There was dried blood, and the gentle undertone of tiredness and labour, but most of all she smelt of alchemical magic.

“Did Niranye tell you what happened?” Maesa asked quietly, her body shifting a little more onto the bed, allowing herself to settle in the cradle Serana made for her.

The older woman nodded, adjusting herself till they were both comfortable. “Most of it.” She replied.

“How is your hand?” Maesa withdrew slightly so she could see it properly when Serana offered it up for inspection.

As Maesa examined it, turning it delicately this way and that, a little frown creasing her brow when she looked at the black mark, Serana could see the weariness on her face. Angry little bruises marked the underside of her eyes with crescent smudges, and her skin was too pale. She blinked frequently, giving little shakes of her head on occasion, as if to banish the sleep that seemed to be constantly creeping up on her.

Serana carefully extracted her hand from the explorations of Maesa’s fingers, and tenderly brushed her cool knuckles across her cheek.

“I’m alright.” Maesa replied to her wordless question, though it lost all hopes of convincing Serana when she moved to stifle a yawn.

Knowing that it was useless to say otherwise, Maesa let out a deep sigh, leaning into the soft touch of Serana’s hand. “It’s just… been a long day.”

“Our lives seem to be made up of ‘long days’.”

The older woman smiled when Maesa chuckled.

“Niranye told me about Morthal.” She said, tucking a few dark locks of her hair behind the curve of Maesa’s ear. “You still plan for us to head there?”

“Yes.” Tentatively the younger woman settled her head once more against Serana’s shoulder, her eyelids heavy, though she still fought off sleep. “We should be safe there.”

“Hmm?” Serana murmured, tucking her arms around her, resting her head atop Maesa’s.

“I know the Jarl.” She yawned.

“That didn’t help much this time.” The older woman gave a little yelp of protest when Maesa prodded her ribs, but settled immediately afterwards when she felt her breathy laughter coil warmly across her neck.

“She’s a good friend.” Maesa explained softly. “I trust her.”

Serana let her eyes drift shut. “Then so do I.”

They were silent for a while. Serana was called back from the fridges of sleep when she felt Maesa’s head shift a little.

“Serana?”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t go to sleep. There are still things to get ready. We’re going to leave as soon as dawn comes.”

“And how far off is that?”

“A few hours or so.”

Serana opened her eyes briefly, turned her head, and pressed her lips to Maesa’s forehead.

“Then stay here for a few hours. You need to rest.”

The Imperial murmured a response, but it didn’t matter, she did not attempt to move again.

When it was time to go, it was Niranye who came to rouse them, though she took a moment to smile at the sight before she did. Both women were fast asleep, nestled in each other’s arms.


	18. More than I can express

Nord or not, when the air atop the throat of the world hit her face it tore a gasp from the shield maiden. Her companion chuckled quietly, even though Valkrys could see she too shivered in the cold. They'd both grown accustomed to fairer winds it seemed.

 Grumbling a little, as much to test her voice as to truly complain, Valkrys dusted the powdery snow from her breaches. At least they’d arrived in sensible attire.

_‘Will **monah zok** arrive soon?’_

The blonde shield maiden looked up and glared at the aged dragon. She remembered Paarthurnax. She remembered his name shouted through the stormy skies. She remembered his name written in blood upon the altars. Even time beyond measure could not blunt the edge of such memories.

“ **Geh.** The Lady will be here momentarily.” Hela replied.

Valkrys shot a less pointed glare to her companion, but did not bother to soften the scowl she affixed. The old woman gave her a toothy grin, wrinkles creasing around her mouth like a web of silent laughter.

To look at Hela a stranger could be forgiven for thinking her harmless. Her waist length hair was a patchwork of peppering grey. Her hands were gnarled, the knuckles standing proud of the veiny blue tinged skin. Her wizened brown eyes were turning milky, she’d have been near blind if she had not died before age took her sight.

As it was Valkrys bet the old hedge witch could see almost as well as the dragon that perched above them. She knew her own mortal injuries were no more than memories, all her muscles flexed as they should, and she felt no maladies to her ribs.

Their Lady would not have let them serve in discomfort. Their Lady would sooner have not let them come at all.

She looked out over the bed of greying cloud beneath them, and took in a shaking breath, a sudden prickling of tears irritating the back of her eyes.

Skyrim lay below those clouds. It was no longer _her_ Skyrim. But it shared the land with the ghost of the country she’d once known.

When Hela came to stand beside her they did not exchange words. Valkrys knew the old witch felt the same fissure of emotion that she did. To be torn between the old world, their world, and the endless possibility of what lay below the churning clouds.

Perhaps it was a kindness that they had arrived here. Amidst the frigid ice of the tallest peak, where the wind ripped her breath from her lungs, where the chill stung her fingers. Here they didn’t have to look at it straight away. They could stand here, and for a fragile precious moment, pretend that below the clouds their Skyrim still existed, and that they were home.

Valkrys gave a sudden start when she felt the thick soft fur press itself into her hand. She yelped, looking down to find an Ice wolf, pelt as white as the snow beneath its buckler sized paws, eyes as limitless and blue as the sky.

For a moment she didn’t speak. How should one address such a being as this. But then, with a gentle nudge, a suggestion, a whispered word entered her mind as the wolf gazed up at her. She let the word fall from her lips.

“Ama?”

The Ice wolf bowed her great head.

_‘Yes. I am Ama.’_

Valkrys swallowed, her mouth dry, her own voice so unfamiliar to her it might as well have been a stranger’s. “Ama.” She said again, a little surer this time.

Ama nodded.

Hela turned to her, her arm held out, the grandest and most beautiful Hawk Valkrys had ever seen perched there, its talons tenderly gripping the hedge witches’ bare flesh.

The shield maiden bowed her head to the bird, reverence in her every bone. “My Lady.” She intoned.

The Hawk gave a single peeling call, ruffling her feathers, testing out the wings she had made for herself.

 _‘You should choose a name.’_ Ama murmured, her head still pressed to the palm of Valkrys’ hand.

The Hawk cocked her head to one side to consider the creature, as if to consider the wolf’s silent words.

_‘My name is my own. I don’t visit as often as you do sister. It would muddle Hela and Valkrys to remember more than they already must.’_

The Ice wolf’s muzzle bobbed as she gave a low growling chuckle. _‘Very well.’_

“Should we head to the city my Ladies?” Hela asked looking between Ama and the Hawk.

 _‘I think that is the wisest course.’_ The Ice wolf murmured, stretching out her powerful limbs one by one. _‘I imagine you are eager to see the girl?’_ She looked to the Hawk, her gleaming white canines exposed in an unsettling smile.

 _‘More than I can express.’_ The feathered Lady replied, beating her wings a few times before lifting herself from Hela’s arm. _‘But I should confer with Paarthurnax before we leave the mountain. It has been a long time since we were able to talk on mundus.’_

 

* * *

 

The heavy pewter clasp rested awkwardly on Serana’s shoulder. Before she could wrest it from its misbehaviour Maesa’s clever fingers were there, twisting the metal pin to sit as it should, tugging at the heavy folds of fabric so that they might cushion it’s edges. In her careful ministrations the Imperial’s touch brushed across the ridge of her clavicle, unintentionally drawing a shiver as the sensation rippled down Serana’s spine.

“There.” The young woman smiled, her palm placed warmly on her shoulder beside the clasp, her pale eyes shimmering in the mix of fading lantern light, and the coming grey of the new dawn.

“Thank you.” The vampire murmured. That gentle pressure of her hand, the way it ever so lightly pressed into her skin, it made her breath catch in her throat.

“Ladies…” Niranye stood in the open doorway, her slender brow arched, her voice holding a gentle warning. “If you don’t want Calder to come up here himself, and find out why weren’t at the Candle on time, I suggest you save the fawning for later.”

Maesa chuckled, flexing her fingers a little against the folds of Serana’s cloak before letting her hand slip away. “Alright, we’ll be down in a moment.”

“Oh no you don’t.” The Altmer crossed her arms over her chest with an all too knowing smirk. “I’m not walking down those stairs unless the two of you are already descending in front of me.”

Serana rolled her eyes, but she didn’t complain. In truth she wanted to be away from the city. It was an illusion of safety that had shrouded them for the last few hours. It was better to be truly safe. Better to be away, somewhere quiet, somewhere private, somewhere they would not be disturbed.

Maesa had moved away, busy with the contents of her satchel, searching for something as she rested it atop one of the the scratched work tables. The serving boy had brought it to them during the night. The boy Maesa had given a penny to the day before. Wuunferth had sent him with it, alongside as much of their gear as the child could carry whilst remaining inconspicuous.

He’d managed Serana’s dagger, and Maesa’s bracers, but had been unable to bring any more of her armour. The Nord touched her fingers absently to the cool hilt at her hip. It was comforting to have it there, its weight familiar even if she generally preferred to use her magic if circumstances called for violence.

“Did Calder manage to find a bow?” Serana asked Niranye whilst Maesa continued to search her satchel.

The high elf shrugged. “He hasn’t produced one yet. Maybe he’ll have found one by the time we _eventually_ meet him.”

“Patience is a virtue Niranye.” Maesa sighed over her shoulder.

“And so is expediency.” Niranye shot back. “If your looking for the phial it’s over by the alembic still.”

Immediately Maesa abandoned her rummaging, instead re-lashing the ties of her satchel and slinging its strap over her head. There was a small leather pouch clasped in her left hand, and after loosening its ties, she walked over to the alchemy instruments. There was a strangely shadowless white bottle stood amongst the abandoned debris of several partly used ingredients. As Maesa picked the object up and walked back to where Serana stood, its crystalline surface caught the light, sending fleeting reflections to dance across the walls.

“The White Phial.” Maesa explained, handing the little vessel to Serana.

Recognition was soon playing secondary to Serana’s shock, as upon taking the phial from Maesa she found the glass to be unnaturally warm. She looked sharply from it’s surface to Maesa. “Is it yours?”

“Yes. We filled it whilst you were sleeping.” The Imperial explained, unconsciously shifting, moving her left arm just a little, tucking it behind her body.

Serana guessed why. “I won’t need to feed for days. You should have waited, your body is weak enough as it is.”

“We also added her blood to the antidote we brewed for you.” Niranye chipped in from the doorway. “I’m not sure if it made that much of a difference, but you’re standing, so there’s that?” She offered a noncommittal shrug when Serana shot her a glare.

“It was better to fill it whilst you were unconscious.” Maesa reasoned, weary, too tired to enter any debate. “If you don’t need to drink from the phial now that’s fine, just put it away for when you do.”

There was no logical reason to be stung by her words. None. They were both exhausted. Facing down the prospect of another long day in escaping the Bear King’s hold. Yet all reason felt hollow, Maesa’s dismissal was enough to scratch at her, enough to set Serana’s teeth on edge.

She put the phial wordlessly in the pouch provided and said no more.

Serana could see it. The flicker of hurt that crossed her worn features. Regret immediately welled up inside her, but perhaps this was a conversation to be had later. When they could talk without the pressure of an impatient Altmer.

To give some small reassurance Serana took up Maesa’s hand, lacing their fingers together, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Are you ready?” She asked, offering a small smile.

The Imperial nodded, though her face was impassive and remained so as they walked to the door.

Niranye sighed heavily as she stepped aside to let them pass. “Don’t you dare start pouting at each other. I’ll take the fawning over that any day.”

“We are not pouting.” Maesa replied, letting go of Serana’s hand so she could navigate the stairs.

“Uh huh.”

Serana ignored them, heading down the darkened passageway behind Maesa. She stumbled a little, her mind still hazy from the poison. A quick hand caught her shoulder and held her steady till she could find her balance again.

She murmured a thank you to the elf.

Niranye patted her on the shoulder stiffly. “Just take it easy, alright?” She muttered. “Don’t give the dragon _princess_ yonder any excuses to push herself anymore.”

Dragon?

Serana paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking back to the elf properly when she was on level ground.

Niranye read the astonishment on her face, but shook her head vehemently pressing a long golden finger to her lips as she descended the last few steps. “Don’t say anything to her till we’ve made it out of the city.” She pressed, whispering barely louder than a breath. "I'm sure she'll be happy to tell you more herself then."

Maesa was watching them, her expression caught somewhere between suspicion, worry and bemusement. Niranye walked past her without saying anything, when Serana went to do the same Maesa caught her hand.

“Is everything alright?” She asked quietly.

Serana nodded, unsure what to say. She felt as if she’d just been caught in a tiny boat during a thunderous storm, tossed about, turned around, left wondering what was sky, and what was water. One word remained a constant, booming with every roll of thunder.

Dragon.

Definitely a conversation to be had later. One of a great many.

“Nice to see you up and about Serana.” Quintus’s cheerful greeting dragged her from her storm, and she felt disorientated once again till she located him amongst the furniture of the shop.

Realising that she was being rude, she offered up a smile, though it felt shaky on her lips. “Thank you for helping us last night.” She looked to Niranye, who’d gone to stand beside the young man, already swinging her own cloak onto her shoulders and arranging her strapped bags. “Both of you. Thank you.”

Quintus immediately blushed with delight whilst Niranye smirked.

“Happy to help.” The young man chirruped, shouldering his pack, easing one of the silver buckles to adjust the balance of its weight. “Any residual effects? From the poison?”

Serana held up her hand, showing the alchemist the black mark.

He hummed quietly, peering closely at it before standing straight to scratch at his ragged beard. “Helgrid came by a little while ago, whilst you two were sleeping.” He explained, never taking his eyes off the mark. “She said Calixto’s neck had turned all black, the edges of the cut, cracked and stiff like charcoal.”

Maesa frowned. “You think it could be for the same reason?”

Quintus shrugged. “I’m not sure. This is all out of my field I’m afraid.” He chuckled rubbing at the back of his neck. “I never did study poisons all that much under Master Nurelion. He was always more focused on restoratives.”

“Good thing too, considering.” Niranye added, coming to join them, her bags settled in her grasp. “Shall we head off?”

In the quiet that followed Maesa looked between the two of them, deep sadness drawing across her face.

“I’m sorry to have brought this to your doors.” She said, glancing at their bags, then at the shop around them. “I don’t know when you’ll be able to return.”

Quintus laughed, though it was a mournful sound. “Don’t be sorry for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Niranye walked over to the door. “We’d be in the same boat as the rest of the city, still tucked up in our beds, not knowing about what was coming. So honestly I think it’s a blessing in disguise.” She gave a quiet sigh as her long fingers gripped the door handle. “Better to be alive, regardless of anything else.”

Maesa went to her, touching her back, offering her what comfort she could. Something private passed between the two of them in the moments that followed, a shared sadness. Then, the Altmer’s shoulders rose high, she straightened her back, and turned her head to shoot Serana and Quintus an expectant glare. “Well? Calder will leave without us at this rate.”

“Voldsea would flay him alive if he did.” Quintus snorted, following his friend as she marched into the grey city street.

Maesa waited for Serana by the door. She held out her hand, palm down, fingers spread wide enough to accept the presence of Serana’s between them.

‘Who are you?’ Serana thought silently, hesitating for on a moment, studying the woman in the cool dawn light.

When their hands met, she still felt the giddy rush of warmth she had felt so often over the last few days, the same intoxicating pull to stay like that, entwined and connected. She remembered something Maesa had once said, the words drifting back to her as they left the alchemy shop behind them.

_“I keep my own privacy keenly Serana.”_

The memory of her voice stayed with her as their party of four walked through the deserted streets.

_“I and those close to me purposely spread false rumour and gossip. We draw not only the Thalmor away, but all others who wish things from me that I do not wish to give.”_

As they came to the central square, near where they had first entered the city only three days before, two cloaked figures approached from the shadows cast by Candlehearth Hall. The taller figure pulled down their hood, Calder’s rugged features were set with grim determination. He and Niranye exchanged a handful of terse words about punctuality.

_“A person deserves to be more and less than a title.”_

She caught Maesa smiling affectionately at the pair, though she made certain to hide such when the Altmer jabbed an irate finger at her. Calder groaned softly in understanding and shook his messy copper mane.

They were soon moving again, Calder and Niranye in front, Quintus and the Dunmer Voldsea in the middle, with Serana and Maesa coming last.

She caught herself looking often at the young Imperial woman, tracing her face, her body, feeling her words still speaking in her mind.

 _“I want you to see_ _me_ _, Serana.  Not a figure, or a title. Just_ _me_ _. I trust you enough that I want you to know_ _me_ _. I hope that that is a far more precious liberty.”_

“I _do_ see you.” Serana murmured, unaware she’d done so aloud until Maesa turned to her looking quizzical.

“Hm?” She hummed, a small smile on her oh so tempting lips.

Rather than retreat Serana leant closer to her, fixing her within the confines of her honey coloured eyes. “I _do_ see you, Maesa.” She said softly, holding her hand tightly. “Can we go somewhere private tonight? Just the two of us? No distractions?”

An attractive blush crept across Maesa’s skin. “Yes.” She replied quietly, glancing briefly at the others. "I'd like that."

No one had noticed their exchange, or perhaps they merely being polite and were choosing to ignore it.

Whichever, when Maesa turned back she leant up and pressed a brief kiss to Serana’s cheek. “As soon as we reach the docks we’ll head our own way.” She explained, the ghost of her lips tickling Serana’s skin.

A small slither of delight tugged at the older woman’s mouth, forming into a happy little smirk. Despite everything else, despite the questions she had to ask, she was so looking forward to their imminent freedom.


	19. A Forgotten Rhythm

The boards of the dock creaked loudly beneath their boots as, one by one, the four of them climbed up onto the deck of the gently bobbing boat.

“Write to us as soon as you make it to Morthal.” Niranye demanded, wrapping her arms fiercely around the young Imperial, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“I will. I promise.” Maesa replied holding the elf just as tightly in return. “Make sure you speak to Ranosa and Laaneth at the college.”

“We will.” Quintus nodded, his eyes alight with the possibilities the College Winterhold could possess. He too hugged Maesa tightly, his eagerness dimming as he held her.

To Serana’s surprise Niranye did not walk straight onto the boat. Instead she came towards her, and when they stood before one another she offered up her hand. Serana took it, too stunned to do otherwise. The Altmer’s grip was firm, her gaze deathly serious.

“Keep each other safe.” She ordered, refusing to loosen her grip till Serana nodded. “Promise me you’ll treat her well, Serana.” She added quietly as Calder distracted the others with an almighty bear hug which he proceeded to soundly trap the incapacitated Imperials within.

“I will.” Serana replied without hesitation. “I promise.”

The rest of the goodbyes were short. The first rays of sun were cresting the eastern mountains, they needed to leave before the city woke. Maesa exchanged a final few words with Calder and Niranye, and much to Serana’s confoundment the once Captain of the guards slapped _her_ heartily on the back. It felt more like a clout from a mountain lion, but the gesture put cheerful laughter in Maesa’s eyes, so the vampire accepted it with as much grace as she could master.

Finally, Calder handed Maesa a bow, unstrung, wrapped tightly in waxed linen. “Here.” He said, handing a quiver to Serana as the younger woman became to unwind the weapon. “Best I could find on short notice.”

Maesa strung the bow with little difficulty, flexing it once or twice, before pulling the bowstring all the way back to her ear. “It’s perfect Calder.” She beamed, easing the pressure from her shoulders after a few moments, allowing the polished wood to settle back into it’s resting curve.

“Make sure it keeps you safe and fed.” He chuckled gruffly, refusing any recompense Maesa tried to offer in return. “Just come and visit us once the drama dies down.”

Not long afterwards Voldsea cast off, commanding the tidy vessel with the ease of a woman in her element, and subsequently the first of the Windhelm refugees left their homes.

Maesa walked the length of the dock, watching them silently as they made their way downstream. Serana followed. At the end of the dock she waited for a moment, her arm waved in a final parting gesture.

Aboard the ship Calder replied in kind. Then they were around the next turn of the river, and out of sight.

“They’ll be alright.” Serana said, standing beside her, her eyes on the bend of the river. “Niranye won’t let it be any other way.”

This raised a quite hiccup of laughter from Maesa. “No.” She replied, sparring Serana a smile spilling over with affection. “She won’t.”

 

* * *

 

By mid-morning they neared the top of the hunting trail Maesa had located, all but the final stretch of their ascent behind them.

“It’s beautiful up here.” Serana gasped, her lungs burning from their climb, but her body buzzing with the thrill of the altitude. Windhelm was merely a memory now, a dark smudge far below them, almost lost behind the snowy crest of the mountainside.

Even if Ulfric had the resources to spare in chasing them, he’d not be able to reach them before they crossed the edge of his lands. They were free.

A fearless joy rushed her, and she could do nothing to prevent the wide smile she now wore.

Maesa was beside her, her tanned cheeks flush from their morning’s exertions. “It is lovely.” She noted, casting her eyes across the wide horizon before them. The landscape was vast, a wash of storm grey mountains, dusted in distant snow. The valleys below thick with a crowed throng of trees, every colour of Autumn present in an intricate patchwork, that only became more brilliant with each moment spent studying it.

“At this rate we should reach Nightgate Inn by noon.” The Imperial said, lighter in every aspect, her skin practically aglow in the mountain air. She turned back to the path and started to climb once more.  

Serana took a few moments then jogged to catch up. “We’re stopping there for the evening?” She asked, kicking up a little flurry of snow as she slowed to a walk, once more at the Imperial’s side.

Maesa nodded. “It’s in Winterhold, so out of Ulfric’s jurisdiction.” She let out a happy sigh. “I think I could sleep for a week after all this.”

Serana nodded.

They walked in silence for a few steps, making steady progress on the sloping path.

At the top they took a few minutes to rest on a low outcrop of stone, once more soaking in the view.

The rock had been protected from the snowfall by a lonely pine. Its meagre branches were stretched out protectively over the boulder, shielding it from the moods of the sky. As they sat, watching the world pass them by in a rare moment of peace, Serana turned to the woman beside her and began to ask the questions she had been gathering.

She started with the one foremost in her mind. “Niranye called you Dragon princess.”

Maesa gave a little snort of laughter. “Did she now? What did I do to deserve that?”

Serana kept her tone flat and her expression serious. “You refused to rest. What did she mean Maesa? It’s not just an affectionate nickname, is it?”

Before Maesa could answer she continued, taking up her hands in her own, pressing her thumbs into the soft pads of her palms, urging her to answer truthfully. “I know you said that you wanted me to know _you._ The real _you_. But I don’t want there to be anymore secrets between us, not after all that has happened. Not if we are to... Please, trust me with this part of you.”

“I do trust you.” The younger woman replied softly, a smile still on her lips, her gaze still on the horizon, but both seemed heavier, weighed down with a sobriety and resignation that had not existed their before.

“I am the last Dragonborn.”

Serana blinked slowly. The words sank languidly with all the implications they heralded, and with a grim finality they settled. A thousand keys turned in a thousand locks in her mind.

“Dragonborn.” She whispered, starring at her.

Maesa nodded.

At first, Serana spoke slowly. Then, as she became more certain of her words her pace quickened, revelations pulling out an excited rush. “An Imperial Dragonborn. Like Saint Alessia, and Reman Cyrodil? Ulfric wanted you so he could spite the Empire, a Nord rebellion with an Imperial Dragonborn as a figure head.”

She nodded again.

“But,” She shifted a little on their makeshift seat, turning to better face her. “what about the Thu’um? Can you use the voice as Ysmir did? Or is it only Nordic Dragonborn who can shout? If you can why didn’t you use it against that dragon that attacked us?”

She read such stories as a child. Tales of monsters, and the men who could slay them. Those able to call the powers of the god’s themselves to aid in glorious battle.

It simply did not match with the woman beside her.

“I can use the voice. But imagine it for a moment. The power of a Dragon’s voice coursing through a mortal’s throat.” The young woman looked down to her hands, limp in Serana’s insistent grasp.

Her voice had adopted a roughness, a scratchy edge. It did not appear to be used in any form of way meant to inflict reprimand on Serana. It seemed to have snuck in, without the speakers notice, an echo of what had been.

“I only use it when there is no other choice. It hurts. Like fire scorching my neck, burning away my mouth until I am certain I will never be able to make another sound. That all speech is lost to me. That breath itself will forever sting as I gasp to remain in a wretched state of living.” Every cruel premonition of each malady flashed across her face, leaving her haunted. “Then I heal. The devastation of it goes. I am well again. I heal, but the memory always remains. I can always remember the taste of it at the back of my mouth.”

Silent screams. The echo, the aftershock trembled through them.  

“The Dragonborn have nearly always been rulers. Kings and Queens.” Serana murmured, recalling those books of her youth, those gilded tales of noble warriors and holy saints. Men and women forged in fire and blood. “You told me once you had sway in the province’s politics. Why? Dragonborn or no you would have to have proved powerful enough for men like that ‘Bear King’ to take notice?”

Maesa seemed to shrink down into herself, her shoulders sloping forward, her head low. In a small, fragile voice she said, “I defeated Alduin.”

It took a moment for Serana to be able to place the name. Then, it came to her, and with it a collision of disbelief and awe. “The…the world eater?” She whispered.

Another nod.

“But, how? He _is_ , or…or _was_ , a god! An aspect of Akatosh! Or so the scholars in my youth believed. How on _Nirn_ did you…?”

“I don’t know.”

Serana stopped, noticing the tremor to the Imperial’s shoulders, the wavering that shook her words.

“It must be over a year ago now. Perhaps nearer two? I’m not sure any more. It’s a long tale Serana. At times it is not a happy one.” She looked so small. Huddled there on that rock, a child recalling a bad dream, a nightmare. A terror of black wings and fire.

“You don’t have to tell me.” She said lowering her own voice to a murmur, looking out once more across the snow to the blue horizon above the mountain tops. “But, I’m glad you told me this much.”

Maesa did not reply.

Rulers. Conquerors. Leaders of Nations. Founders of Nations. Heroes. Legends.

A hundred titles, each with their own weight, their own expectations. A world torn apart by civil wars, each leader looking to gain power over the others. For those caught in between? A hopes of unification would lie in a rallying point, a figurehead.

A Dragonborn.

Serana looked to Maesa. Her face was hidden behind her black curls, but the lines of her shoulders were rigid. A tiny tremor still shook her coiled body.

“The first moment I saw you, I thought you were beautiful.” The vampire said, leaning forwards, her head level with the younger woman’s. She didn’t know exactly what she was saying, but she knew the words must come, that she must say them.

“You were a stranger. A foolish, beautiful mortal who’d pressed a button they really shouldn’t have.” She looked down to Maesa’s right hand, the pale scar that spanned it’s surface. Evidence of her foolishness, healed enough to be pink new skin. It had only been a week ago, no more, but now Serana understood why it looked as it did.

She brushed her thumb tenderly across the scar, feeling it’s shallow ridges, memorizing them. “The second moment, I expected you to attack me.” She moved closer to her, slipping her arm slowly around Maesa’s trembling back. “But, you took me by my hand, and helped me to my feet. I thought you were the strangest mortal I’d ever met, but the kindest too. Then you took me home.”

The younger woman leant into her touch, her shuddering stilling, drawing strength from what comfort Serana had managed to provide.

“You’re not a ‘Dragonborn’ to me, Maesa. You weren’t one back then when you freed me. You’re not a tool, or a bargaining chip, or a martyr, not to me.” She drew her closer, as close as she could. “You are the woman who makes me breathless every time she touches me. You are good, and you are kind.” She felt the weight of her words now, she knew that there was a new link between them forming. It would be made corporeal with her next breath. As she realised and revelled in this knowledge a smirk crossed her lips.

She moved to whisper her fateful words into the smooth curve of Maesa’s ear. “And you are worthy of _all_ my love.”

The mountain breeze teased at their hair. Tickling their cheeks, and tugging gently at their clothing. In a tentative movement, Maesa sat up straight, Serana following, drawn by the tether that now seemed to unite their movements.

Her pale eyes, those beautiful, stormy eyes. As soft as a hatchling’s first downy feathers, yet edged in steel. Smouldering with the ashen fire, but cool as starlight. They looked into the honeyed amber shimmer of Serana’s eyes.

They looked so deeply, past her flesh, past her body, down to her soul, the ghost of her heart.

Long delicate fingertips traced her jaw, following the curve from the recess of her ear to her chin, brushing across the skin, leaving a whispering echo of their presence. Down her ghostly eyes flickered. Once. Twice. Glancing at Serana’s lips, hesitant, cautious.

Serana dared not breathe.

Then, with nothing more than a shiver, Maesa closed the gap between them, a shaking breath on the tip of her tongue. Gently, tenderly, she kissed her.

Her mouth was so careful with hers, caressing her lips, fuelling the blossom of heat that was lovingly consuming her. Had she the beat to quell Serana would have wished her heart to stop in that moment. In that crease of time, where the air felt still, and all the world drew in silently, till all that remained was the sensation of her.

Distantly, a tiny part of her being became aware of a peculiar rhythm. An echo. Somewhere dark, somewhere deep, somewhere that should be silent. It grew steadily, every moment becoming louder, and louder, till it filled her ears.

Still the world was Maesa’s kiss, her lips, her mouth, her hands as they rested on her waist, pulling her closer, deeper. Nothing could not distract her from that.

But time moved ever onward, and they parted.

The cold bit at her mouth when Maesa drew away. It stung so sharply Serana gasped. And the _noise_ , the _beat_ , it was still there, softer now, deeper. With every movement she felt it, in her every muscle, her every bone vibrating with it.

Tears prickled at her eyes, and she couldn’t stop them. She was powerless to this rhythm, this lost cycle that seemed drive her body towards an existence she could not remember.

The first of her anguished sobs made Maesa press her hands to her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were wide with fear, desperate to know what was wrong. If she had done something wrong.

The slam of understanding hit her so soundly she seemed to stagger back as if struck, though they were both still sat on the outcrop of rock. A flurry of half formed words parted her lips, but they died to the next before they were ever spoken.

Serana held Maesa’s hands to her face, needing the sensation of something she knew amongst the chaos. Something she understood.

“Your warm.” Maesa uttered, her mouth left slack after the words left her. She had no more capacity to understand what was happening than Serana did.

She’d been cold for centuries. So long and so constant was the chill that it had faded into a normalcy. But now the gentle warmth of her _own_ skin was fire. It burned, but it was not pain, it was shock. Fundamental, reaching down and ripping apart everything she thought she knew herself to be.

The rhythm beat on. A new constant, and an old one. A forgotten habit of a dead body.

Dead no longer.

In a moment it’s name came to her, and with the knowledge came another sob.

“Maesa.” She struggled to speak, clutching at her so tightly her warm fingers bruised the young woman’s skin. “Maesa! My heart! It’s beating!”

 


	20. "What a pair we make."

That long sought for pulse reached eagerly to be felt by Maesa’s touch. It was rapid but, no longer as dangerously panicked as it had been moments before. Now it’s pace was quickened by a new stimuli.

“You kissed me.”

The words seemed to reach Maesa unexpectedly, making her pause, and look up to meet Serana’s eyes. She’d been so focused on her task she had momentarily forgotten all but the rhythm beneath her fingers. She was torn between a blush and her focus on the phenomenon they had just witnessed, grappling with which she should be taking more seriously.

“I did.” She replied, looking back to Serana’s wrist which she cradled in her lap, her eyes on the blue veins beneath the skin. It had in no small part disturbed her when she’d first tried to find the woman’s pulse. The expanse of time between that hasty morning in Whiterun, and this moment, atop the Pale Mountains, stretched before her like a dark ocean.

So much had happened, everything had changed. In the passing of a few tumultuous days, the priorities of Maesa’s life had been ripped apart and rewritten. The intensity of it frightened her. She was terrified of losing something she barely knew.

“And now my heart is beating.”

Her fingers flinched. “Yes.” Maesa replied quietly. She had to concentrate. She must understand what had happened. “It is. But our kiss might not be the cause.”

If it had been the poison, then they had failed to purge it from Serana’s body. She ran her fingers over the blackened flesh on her palm. It’s rough edges met her touch defiantly, standing proud of the perfect skin that surround it. It was no larger than it had been that morning she noted, as she measured it against her smallest finger. She feared the poison might be moving beneath the surface, creeping along Serana’s veins. Perhaps now it had simply reached her heart.

“And if it was your kiss?”

Maesa pressed her eyes shut for a long moment. Her mind felt swollen, her own skull compacting it’s expansion, creating an insistent pressure behind her brow. Had she done it, then what had happened? Wuunferth had mentioned an _exchange_ when he’d lectured then. Had her kiss exchanged some essence of life with Serana’s? If so, if they were to come together again, perhaps more would be gained, or lost.

The threat of such loss clutched at her chest, and she forced her eyes open to resume her study. She had to find some meaning in this. “If it was my… then I will need to rethink everything I thought knew about Restoration magic.”

Serana’s soft fingers traced the far side of her face, guiding her eyes away from her worries, easing her into her gentle gaze. Though she came reluctantly, when she let herself look she was immediately entranced by the most bewitching of smiles.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.” Serana murmured, looking to Maesa’s lips. They were still sat, side by side, close enough that all she need do was lean towards the Imperial in just such a way…

Maesa halted her progress. She held her back with a shaking hand, pushing firmly against her shoulder.

“We don’t know what will happen.” She explained, her voice weak. Whilst worry could take the largest apportion of blame for hesitancy and reluctance, there was something else. There was a change in Serana. It was slight, and had she not been so focused only every symptom she could recognise in her companion, she might not have noticed it.

Serana’s eyes had always reminded her of amber, caught in golden light, every flaw beneath the surface shimmering, unique and beautiful. Now there was heat, embers humming with primal energies, untamed fires. The potency to Serana’s altered gaze scorched her skin.

“If it was our… my…” Maesa was reluctant to give the name her own actions aloud. She was afraid. “Serana, I don’t want to hurt you.” She pleaded, ashamed at the whimpering’s of her own words.

For an instant the older woman’s elegant features darkened. But Maesa realised that she wasn’t angry. It was confusion that pinched her slender brows, a crease of utter confoundment, before it all melted away into tenderness.

“Oh, my Darling.” She whispered, her pale fingers brushing across Maesa’s cheek as she stroked delicate circles upon her skin. “You haven’t.” She insisted. “You haven’t hurt me. I’m still here.”

The heat in her gaze was still there, but it’s edge had disappeared. It did not burn, instead it caressed her. Tongues of gentle flame, enveloping her, warming her, wrapping her in a profound comfort.

With gentle reverence Serana slid her hand beneath the one Maesa held to her shoulder. She took hold of it and guided it to her chest. She placed it between the smooth swells of her breasts, holding it there. Maesa felt the rhythm she’d sensed at Serana’s wrists. It was firmer here, stronger, it demanded her attention, beating like a war drum beneath her palm.

She was still so unsure, terrified of what might happen if she pursued her feelings. Nothing made sense, this was not supposed to happen. Was Serana still a vampire? Was she still immortal? How had this happened? Why?

Yet, despite the chaos of questions in her mind, the way the answers she needed danced out of her reach, a new constant pulsed beneath her palm. Serana’s heart beat as if it had always done so, as if it had never stopped. It was insistent, determined, stalwart and certain in its new role.

“Serana I…” Maesa’s breath caught in her throat robbing her of her voice.

“Maesa.” Her name left Serana’s lips lovingly, as if the sound of it alone was something precious and rare, a treasure to be cherished. “ _You have my heart._ Remember?”

Her eyes prickled sharply, and though she was ashamed to bear them so easily, tears began to silently gather. Maesa could do nothing in reply but nod mutely.

“My body is alive. I don’t know what this means, I don’t know what will happen now.” Serana said, her voice achingly gentle. “But, darling, I know that if it is to be a choice between certainty without you, or the unknown together? I choose to be with you.”

“Serana…” Maesa uttered, her voice fragile. “I want to, but I’m so afraid.”

Serana placed the soft pad of her thumb at the corner of her lips. She traced the edges, feeling out every curve, every secret she could find. She inched closer to Maesa, her warm amber eyes dancing between her mouth and her face. “Please, be brave, face this unknown with me?”

Maesa could not hold onto her hesitancy. She ached to kiss her again. She wanted to feel her lips again. She wanted to understand, but… she needed _her_ so much more.

“Yes.” She breathed, giving to her heart.

_‘Divines have mercy on us.’_

On the last ripple of a breathless shudder Serana pressed her lips to Maesa’s, and kissed her.

She felt her hands wind around her, her arms drawing her closer, pinning Maesa’s hand between the press of their bodies. She could feel the hammering of Serana’s heart at her palm, and the pounding of her own, answering its call. She melted into the embrace.

Serana was there, she was safe. Maesa sank into her safety, its warmth soothing every ache and bruise of her weariness. She felt safe, and for a moment she believed it.

She wanted to be nowhere else but there, held in Serana’s arms, kissing her, their hearts beating together. She wanted it more than she had allowed herself to want anything in many long years. She wanted to feel like this, with Serana. She wanted Serana, and she knew she was lost to that singular desire.

Serana drew back just enough to gift her a dreamy smile, happiness radiant in her glistening eyes.

A flair of panic made Maesa ask, “Are you alright? Did anything happen?”

As she slowly shook her head the tip of her nose brushed across Maesa’s. “I’m fine.” She insisted softly. Her fiery amber eyes glance down to Maesa’s hand, still trapped between them. “I can feel your heartbeat.” She smiled.

Relief brought a choked chuckle to bubble up within Maesa’s breast. “What a pair they make.” She could not supress her happiness, it was intoxicating, infectious, and she did not have the strength to fight it. “How long have you wanted to kiss me?” She asked, resting her forehead carefully against Serana’s, letting her eyes close for a moment.

Serana let her own eyes slip shut, her smile remaining. Between them their hearts began to slow, settling to a comfortable resting rate.

“Mara’s Eye.” Serana confessed. Her hands caressed the curves of Maesa’s back, tracing the trail of her spine through her clothing.

“Divines.” The younger woman laughed breathlessly. “After the spiders in that cave I must have looked a sight.”

Serana shook her head. “You were beautiful in the moonlight.” She uttered. She felt the feather light brush of Serana’s dark lashes as she opened her eyes. “You are always beautiful.”

Maesa looked to her to see a limitless conviction staring back. A hot blush warmed her cheeks. “You have a honeyed tongue Serana.” She gave another breathless little laugh. “But I fear for your eyesight.”

Serana smirked, tilting her head to the side, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I believe you promised me that when we left Windhelm you’d tell me who holds your heart? And if I recall correctly I never did have the chance to recompense you for your merciless teasing that day.”

Her eyes rolled in an exaggerated fashion, but Maesa could not hope to fake annoyance, nor hide her nervous anticipation. “We should get moving again soon.”

She gave a little yelp as Serana’s arms tightened around her.

“I’m quite comfortable right here.” She grinned coquettishly. “And that wasn’t an answer.”

A streak of devious temptation slipped effortlessly into Maesa’s mind. She eyed the lily-white curve of Serana’s neck, remembering in vivid detail the reaction she had so effortlessly drawn from her that evening. Before the other woman could react, she nuzzled her way to the hollow of her throat, delicately pressing the softest of kisses to the sensitive skin there.  

The gasp that came from Serana almost made her reconsider, but her remaining common sense won out. As soon as she felt the Nord’s hold weaken, she slipped away, standing clear of her grasp, only a little giddy.

“That was utterly unfair.” The older woman grumbled, her eyes glinting as she watched her comb through her tousled curls.

As the disgruntled expression upon Serana’s beautiful face sank into a playful pout, an unsuppressible trickle of laughter fluttered in Maesa’s chest. With an exaggerated sigh Serana stood, dusting off her clothing, playing up her seemingly bruised ego with every movement.

Her hair attended to Maesa allowed herself a small indulgence, tracing the lines and curves of her companion’s body with her pale eyes.  

She realised she was falling in love. She knew it with a certainty that seemed to echo in every vestige of her being. She was falling in love, and the thought filled her with a dizzy joy.

“You have snow on your skirts.” Serana observed, unaware of her revelations, bending down a little to brush the white powder from the heavy fabric.

When she stood, Maesa drew herself swiftly to the gentle warmth of Serana’s body, reaching up to hold her dear face reverentially between her hands. She pressed a lingering kiss to her startled lips.

When they parted a pleasantly bewildered expression inhabited Serana entirely. Maesa hid her amusement as best she could behind her hands, but the Nord caught her and smirked.

“What, might I ask, did I do to deserve that?” She demanded, her voice breathy and flustered.

Maesa stepped away, trailing her hand down Serana’s arm and linking their hands. “You are you.” She said as she began to lead her once more along the forgotten path they’d been following. “That is more than enough.”

 

* * *

 

They found the road within the hour, and were soon across the border of Winterhold, leaving Eastmarch and Ulfric behind them. The midday sun was pleasant upon their faces, and a fair wind pushed gently at their backs. The snowfall had been far lighter here, most of the night’s flurries had already melted away, leaving only the occasional patch of white to cling on in the shelter of the deep shade.

Serana had not been able to keep a smile from her face the entire way. Her cheeks ached with its persistence, but she could not have dismissed it if she wanted to. All the world seemed bright and clear, inhabited with a certainty she had not known for an age.

She looked at the woman walking beside her, whose hands she held tightly, whose pale eyes shone when she noticed her gaze.

“What is it?” Maesa asked, her voice light with amusement.

“Nothing in particular.” Serana assured, squeezing her hand for a few heartbeats. “I’m just likely to be insufferably happy for a while.” She smirked.

The younger woman’s dark curls fell about her face as she laughed. “And what makes your happiness so insufferable?” She asked.

“Oh? I’m sure you’ll find out.” She tugged her arm lightly, drawing her close, and kissed her cheek.

Maesa playfully batted her away, shaking her head. “I’m glad Niranye and the others decided to go to Winterhold. We would have driven her to distraction within an hour.”

Serana shrugged. “We could always visit them?”

“Ranosa would be relentless if we did.”

Maesa glanced around them casually, keeping a regular eye to the roadside. They had seen a handful of Imperial soldiers at the border itself, but otherwise the route had been quiet. The soldiers had looked utterly miserable with boredom, stationed beside a collection of tattered tents, and surrounded by total tranquillity.

They’d only briefly questioned them, and mostly in the aids of hearing any recent news that they could offer. Maesa had told them enough details about the murders in Windhelm that they could be prepared for any trouble that came their way, but had largely omitted their involvement.

“Wasn’t Ranosa the name of the woman from your temple?” Serana asked, soaking in more of the sunshine as they walked. “Is it the same one?”

The younger woman nodded. “The very same. She stayed with me for many years after we fled Bravil. She was with me when I first came to Skyrim.”

“What does she do at the College? Is she a mage?”

“She’s…” Maesa searched for an appropriate word. “…more of a permanent ‘house guest’, I suppose. She has an arrangement with the arch-mage, as I understand it, they’re old friends. She has a somewhat curious habit of getting into trouble.”

Serana raised a sceptical eyebrow at Maesa and the younger woman ducked her head quickly.

“I guess I can’t really criticise her.” She admitted sheepishly. “Last time I visited, she and Laaneth were attempting to get the college up and running again after, what they described as, a ‘little incident’ occurred with an ancient magical artefact.”

A chuckle rose in Serana’s chest. “Sounds like quite the tale.”

“From the expression on Laaneth’s face I would say that’s a safe assumption.”

With a slight tilt of her head the Nord asked, “Who is Laaneth then? A mage at the college?”

“She’s the current arch-mage.” Maesa explained absently, studying a patch of sparse foliage in the distant.

The shrubs quivered as something within stirred. Silently Maesa eased her hand from Serana’s hold and reached carefully for her bow. Her movements were practiced and smooth, her stormy eyes never once leaving the spot where the dark leaves had rustled.

They began to slow their pace. Maesa knocked an arrow to her bowstring, whilst Serana gripped her dagger, summoning from the familiar well of magicka within to call a little shard of ice to her fingertips.

They waited, watching for any further movement.

Again, the foliage shifted, a few browning leaves fluttering to the ground. Maesa brought her bow up, the arrow level with the crests of the bushes. She did not pull the bowstring back, but Serana could see the coiled muscle in her shoulders, tensing in anticipation.

The motion in the vegetation stilled. Then, in a dart of hoof and antler, a stag leapt from the bushes followed by two skittish does.

Maesa’s arms relaxed as she let out a long sigh, and Serana let her magic quietly fade. The startled creatures leapt across the roadway, disappearing as swiftly as they had appeared, into the shadows of the autumnal trees.

With a relieved chuckle the younger woman re-secured her bow across her back, and presently they began to move forwards again.

“So Laaneth is the arch-mage?” Serana queried, eager to be talking again, to hear more about Maesa’s friends.

The Imperial woman stretched out her arms, easing the weary muscles of their sudden tension. She nodded. “She took over almost a year ago. She and Ranosa are old friends, they apparently first met during the great war, though they never will divulge any details when I’ve asked.”

“I’d like to see the college someday.” Serana confessed, following the path of a small bird as it flitted through the blue sky high above them.

“I’ll happily take you once everything has settled.” Maesa said. “Though I will have to make sure I write to Ranosa in advance. She can be a little overbearing sometimes. In fact, I must send word to Jenessa and Lydia once we reach the inn if there’s a messenger available. If they hear about Windhelm first, they’ll panic.” An almighty yawn interrupted Maesa’s last few words.

“You’ll sleep first.” Serana said firmly, a little frown creasing her brow. “You’ve only slept a first hours in the last two days.”

Maesa grimaced. “It won’t take long to write a few lines, just to let them know…”

Serana swiftly moved to stand in front of her, the younger woman forced to stop mid stride before she walked into her. The Nord fixed her with an uncompromising glare. “You will get some rest. One night will not make the difference. I will hold you to the bed if necessary.”

It wasn’t meant as a flirtation, but as the crimson blush spread across Maesa’s cheeks, Serana realised how the statement must have come across. She felt her own face flush darkly.

At the sight of her embarrassment, Maesa gave a little chuckle, a bashful little smile tugging at her lips. “Your argument is won Serana. I’ll write in the morning.”

Eager to move their conversation inexorably onto a different topic the older woman nodded stiffly. “Good.”

 


	21. The Golden Evening and the Red Dawn

To be alive again was a disconcerting sensation. There was so much noise, so much busyness, a thousand things to capture her interest, all speaking at once into her aged ears.

Hela had died an old woman. She had lived a lifetime and died surrounded with the comforts of her achievements. Never during such a life had she thought of a second turn upon mundus. Yet, here she was, climbing a grassy hillock, her once creaking joints, supple and new. A new breath of life inflating her lungs.

The lady had come to her in the Forest of Dreams as a whisper on the aethereal winds. It had always been posed a choice, but Hela knew as soon as she heard the request, that she would go. It was not in her nature to decline.

She had no regrets. The last rays of the golden sun were warm on her back, the earthy scent of the forest swaddled her in its timeless embrace, the good damp earth was soft beneath her feet. Hela was glad to be where she was, as she was, and for as long as such an existence lasted she would be content.

Halfway up the rise she paused, looking back towards the tiny community of smoky huts and long houses. Ivarstead. A settlement she had not known in her first lifetime. With the setting of the sun the mountain worn residents were tidying their chores away, preparing the cooking fires for the evening meal. Many were kin. Though their features had altered with the ages, Hela still saw traces of her own race amidst their faces. She’d spotted a Mer, but had not gained much from the glimpse. The Lady had explained that the face of Men and Mer had changed inexorably.

There were new races now, mixed in with the old. Made from the melting pot of countless generations. Altmer, Bosmer, Dunmer. Breton, Redguard, Nord, Imperial. And there were also beasts who walked upon two legs as the men and the mer did. Creatures no lesser in intelligence, born amidst mystery, magic, and Daedric meddling. Khajiit, and Argonians.

What her family would have thought of such a Nirn, Hela could not begin to imagine. It was familiar and new, strange yet comforting, alien and somehow it felt like returning home.

Her old ears prickled, and she turned to the undergrowth beside her. Ama’s blue eyes watched her from beneath a holly bough.

 _‘Are you settled for the evening?’_ The ageless one asked, her melodious voice a murmuring of familial comfort in Hela’s mind.

The hedge witch turned to continue her climb, knowing that the Ice wolf would follow. “Yes, my Lady. We have found beds.”

The undergrowth rustled with the beasts passing. _‘That is good. And what of Valkrys?’_

“She is purchasing supplies for our journey.” Hela explained.

Upon reaching High Hrothgar the old priests that resided within had offered much to the travellers. The Lady had thanked them for their service, and graced them with blessings for their kindness. A temple did not possess the more martial of the arms they require however. Valkrys in her usual manner, had made the procurement of such equipment her goal for the evening, disappearing towards the meagre forge as soon as she and Hela had entered Ivarstead.

‘Ever the Shield Maiden.’ The old woman mused.

“Is my Lady aloft?” She asked the shadows as Ama ghosted her progress from within.

 _‘She is tasting the winds.’_ The Ice wolf acknowledged.

They had discussed arrangements during their descent of the mountain. Whilst their Lady could be passed of perhaps as some form of hunting beast, Ama, with her snow white fur, ice blue eyes, and all knowing gaze, could not. The eternal Ladies had there fore resigned themselves to wait out of sight, whilst their mortals entered the settlement.

Valkrys had reasoned that perhaps their presence would be less conspicuous in other settlements, allowing them to slip by undetected. Only time would tell if this was true. For now, in the ideals of safety and speed, Ama and their Lady had remained without.

As her distance from Ivarstead grew, Hela sensed the Ice wolf come closer to the border of the brush, glimpses of her gleaming fur flashing in the growing shade.

 _‘You have questions.’_ She observed, casting her knowing eyes across to the old hedge witch.

Hela bit back a smile, she would not be able to hide her mind from beings as these. “It is a foolish folly, my Lady.” She shook her greying crown. “It is not worthy of asking.”

 _‘Folly only lies in ignorance Hela.’_ Ama murmured. _‘Not in the question that banishes ignorance.’_

“I was wondering, if it is not too bold of me to ask, why it is that my Lady chose the form of a wolf to walk the realm?”

A deep growling chuckle made the dying leaves quiver, a few spiralling down to the litter below. They were far enough away from the settlement now to permit her to walk free of the foliage, and with the grace of an elk, Ama emerged. She padded beside the old woman, her flank warm in the cooling night as it brushed against Hela’s calves.

 _‘I spent almost twenty years as a Khajiit.’_ Ama explained, her great and powerful jaw moving only slightly as the words came to Hela’s mind. _‘A lupine seemed an appropriate progression. I have always harboured a tender affection for these creatures, they protect their pack and care for their young to their dying breath.’_

Hela considered the Ice wolf in the dimming light. “My Lady told me of your labours to the south.” She said softly, casting her eyes back to the summit of the hill, not more than a dozen paces away now.

 _‘I would not call it a labour.’_ Ama replied. _‘It was a task I did not wish for only because the role I had to fill was not mine to own. But I have never regretted it.’_ Days of a life gone passed in the rumblings of her words. Hela felt their weight upon her heart. The wistful mourning for a time lived well, but in memory.

“What was she like as she grew?” The hedge witch asked as they crested the hill. The vale of Eastmarch swept out beneath them in a sea of golden fragments, each dying crown of autumn burning in the last of the crimson sun.

They sat upon the grass, Hela with her aged legs tucked beneath her, whilst Ama settled onto her haunches, remaining upright and watchful, her blue eyes to the cloudless sky.

High, high above their heads, amidst the depthless reaches of the expanse, there sored the Hawk, riding the sweeping currents of the mountain air. Ama watched her as the Lady glided on the invisible tide.

 _‘I try not to speak of her when my sister is near.’_ Ama explained, a great sadness inhabiting the beasts piercing gaze. _‘It is an unchangeable tragedy of time that I could know the child whilst she could not.’_

 Hela tried to follow the patterns of the Ladies flight, but even with her restored vision she frequently lost all sight of her.

 _‘When her sixth summer had passed she presented to me an alleyway kitten she’d found.’_ Ama huffed. _‘Viscous creature. Her hands were torn up with scratches from the little beasts claws, but she would not cast it out. She cared for it tirelessly. I always wondered if it was the reason why she first took such interest in the Restoration arts.’_

“Too heal her cuts?” Hela asked, smiling at the images her mind conjured.

In as much as an Ice wolf could, Ama shrugged. _‘It provided motivation for her studies if nothing else.’_

“What was it called? Did the child give it a name?”

The wolf’s hide shook with poorly supressed laughter. It was an unnerving sound, a guttural scratching so close to a growl it made Hela’s hair stand on end.

_‘She called it Nerevar.’_

Mortal histories did not reach the dead, not unless the dead sought it out. In the aids of lessening their disorientation the Lady had seen fit to instruct Hela and Valkrys on a few key concepts of the ages in which they had been dead.

The hedge witch snorted ungainly. “An interesting choice.”

Ama beamed with a maternal pride. _‘I always imagined she had read the name within one of the churches books. Perhaps she thought it suited the vicious little creature.”_

A curious coincident to be certain, Hela thought, watching the changing shades of the vale. A common alley cat, named for the champion of a Daedric prince. She wondered whether it had ruffled any prideful feathers amongst the dark gods.

She caught a sudden change in the Ice wolf. A stiffening of every muscle in the beasts body, apart from her two finely furred ears, which swivelled and flicked towards the sky.

 _‘Something’s wrong.’_ Ama growled, her eyes never leaving the circling shadow of the Hawk above them. _‘To the North.’_

Hela stood, judging direction from the last crease of sunlight atop the mountain peaks. She craned her head, searching the swathe of autumnal forest for what had so distressed the Hawk. But all she could see was the tranquil dusting of golden trees, the rising slopes of the Pale mountains lying beyond.

Ama’s eyes were fixed on the Hawk, her black lips moving in a noiseless mutter, sliding over her great fangs. _‘The city.’_ She murmured.

The edge of the sun sank below the horizon, the shadows of twilight consuming the glimmer of the vale’s forests. Then, Hela saw it. Tucked beneath the shelter of the Pale mountains, just the outline of hewn stone against distant snow.

The city of Windhelm. It had been young when Hela had died. And now, the city of the Atmoran kings, was aflame.

 

* * *

 

The bolt on their door slid into place smoothly, it’s weight reassuring in Serana’s hands as she secured it. The rest of Nirn could wait for a night on the other side. Now was the time for rest.

She heard the rustling of clothing behind her as Maesa removed her snow sodden cloak and hung it before the fire. The fair weather had not lasted. For the last hour of their journey an early winter storm had swept in, casting down sleet and hail. The chill of it had taken Serana completely by surprise, and for the first time in lifetimes, she’d had to tuck herself firmly into her cloak to avoid its sting.

The Nightgate Inn had been a welcome sight. As Serana suspected she would be, Maesa was familiar with the owner, passing a handful of familiar greetings with the grizzled old Nord. The man bore a savage scar over his left eye, its creation having long ago turned his pupil milky white. He seemed to wear the gruff and weathered mannerisms of a cantankerous old oxen at first, but Serana saw his expression shift as he and the younger woman talked.

Once again Maesa passed on word and warning of the murders in Windhelm.

Serana turned from the door and crossed to the fire, unclipping the clasp of her own cloak on the way and setting it beside the Imperials. In short she asked her why she’d mentioned the murders.

“Better that I tell them in as much truth as I can, than they hear half truths from others later.” The younger woman reasoned, tending to the ties on her sodden boots. “There will be enough confusion soon enough, but this way I might at least be able to blunt it’s edge.”

“Will it really get that bad?” Serana asked, sitting beside her on the bed, peeling away the damp leather of her own footwear.

Maesa nodded. “I’m afraid it probably will. Ulfric will have to face the consequences of his policies. I do hope that I’m wrong, but I fear there will be more bloodshed.”

They placed their discarded boots beside the door, leaving them unlaced in the hopes that the gentle heat from the fire would not damage them, but dry them by the morning.

Standing before the fire they held out their hands to the warmth, rubbing the wet numbness from their fingers.

“If the weather is fair tomorrow we should be able to reach Dawnstar by nightfall.” Maesa sighed, clenching her hands a few times to ease the aches from the weary muscles. “And then Morthal the following day.”

Serana took the Imperial’s hands between her own and began to massage her newly gained warmth into them. “Sounds like a lot of walking.” She observed quietly.

“It is.” She said, thanking Serana as the Nord began to work on her other hand. “But I’d rather put as much distance between us as Eastmarch as possible.”

“You think Ulfric will send someone after us?” She couldn’t quite keep her scepticism from her voice. The Bear King would have more than enough to worry about besides keeping up the off handed threat he’d levelled at them.

“It’s not Ulfric that worries me. Not entirely.” They moved to sit at the little table, the food they had purchased from Hadring upstairs waiting for them.

“What is it that worries you then?” Serana asked, tearing a small bread roll in two and handing half to her companion.

“There was something strange about the murders.” She explained, adding when she caught sight of Serana’s incredulous frown, “Well, especially strange then.”

The bread was chewy and clearly from the morning’s oven, but it was still nourishing, and the meat from the evening spit was tender and greasy, and warmed their empty bellies.

“Calder brought us Calixto’s journals last night.” Maesa explained as they ate, pouring out two goblets of steaming cider from the pitcher they’d purchased. “Their contents were… disturbing to say the least.”

Serana sipped the cider from her goblet tentatively and waited for her to continue.

“He was following what he believed to be teachings of an ancient and forgotten form of magic. Something he called flesh magic.”

The Nord shuddered, not quite understanding why the words crawled across her skin. “Where are the journals now?” She asked, eager to distract herself.

Maesa finished off her food, and cradled her goblet carefully, contemplating the amber surface of the warm concoction. “Niranye has them. She’s going to take them to Laaneth.” She was quiet for a moment, clearing considering a recently formed thought. Then she looked up to Serana. “He was an associate of the college once. Or so the journals say. It would have been before Laaneth took over, but she still might know something about him, or be able to find out information from the other teachers.”

Serana peered at her from over the lip of her cup. “Why does this mention of…” For a reason beyond her imaginings she couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Of strange magic, concern you so? The man might just have been mad.”

“Yes, he may have been.” The younger woman admitted. “But I find myself rolling the words over and over in my mind. Something about them, and his obsessions with his sister, seems cultivated. As if someone else put the idea in his mind.”

The fire flickered in the grate, and despite herself a second shudder shivered through Serana.

“And there was one other thing.” Maesa whispered, her eyes watching the flames in the hearth. “I’m not sure if you would remember, but before he died he said that he’d seen me in his dreams. That I had taken his sister’s face.”

In the silence that followed Serana starred at her empty goblet, the warped reflections within. She was right. There was something strange about the murders. Something that seemed almost familiar.

“Getting as far away as possible sounds wise.” She muttered, tracing the metal lip beneath her finger, trying to push away and examine the churning worry in her gut at the same time. Her eyes caught the black mark on her palm, its shadows seemed deeper in the lantern and fire light.

“May I see it?”

She looked up to find Maesa watching her, her eyes glancing to Serana’s palm. The Nord nodded.

Rather than examine it there, Maesa led her to the bed. They sat with their knees lightly touching, Serana’s marked hand cradled in Maesa’s lap. As she peered at it, her pale eyes squinting at the markings, a few locks of her hair fell around her face.

Reflexively Serana tucked the dark curls back behind her ear.

“Does it hurt?” Maesa asked, attempting to hide her blush.

“No. I am aware of it, but it isn’t painful.”

“That is good at least.” The Imperial sighed, tenderly squeezing her fingers. “We’ll have to keep an eye on it over the next few days. If anything starts to happen we’ll head for Winterhold. They may be able to help.”

Serana carefully tilted Maesa’s chin up with her unmarked hand. She leant forwards and kissed her softly.

She felt her own heart fluttering when they parted and revelled in its beat.

Maesa’s eyes were lightly closed, a contented hum on her slightly parted lips.

“You are beautiful.” Serana whispered, smiling as a blush once again warmed Maesa’s skin.

“Your honeyed tongue remains as distracting as ever I see.” She smirked, her pale eyes twinkling like stars. “How I will ever get anything done is a mystery to me.”

The bed creaked softly as Serana moved forwards. She silenced Maesa’s protests with another kiss as she wound her arm around her body, using her other to carefully ease them down to the thick furs. She lay beside her, holding her gently to her chest, as she trailed kisses across her lips.

When she stopped she felt a certain satisfaction upon seeing the heavy lidded stupor across Maesa’s flushed face.

“I did say I would hold you down if necessary.” She laughed breathlessly as the woman in her arms began to shake off her haze.

“I also believe sleep and rest were mentioned.” Maesa retorted softly, her fingers tracing the curves of Serana’s neck with a languid grace.

“So I did.” Deftly she caught her troublesome fingers, kissing each of them lightly. “And I meant it, Maesa. Tonight, we rest.”

Her heart fluttered again when she saw the flicker of disappointment in Maesa, but she steeled herself against the temptation to change her mind. She kissed her one last time before extracting herself from the Imperial’s arms.

“Rest darling.” She said, lingering to stroke her lily-white fingers through her hair. “We have time enough for everything else later.”

Maesa shook her head slightly, smiling the whole time, but obediently moved to do as she was told.

The Nord tended to the lanterns about the room, shuttering their flames, but leaving the fire in the hearth to its own devices. She checked the bolt on the door one last time, then turned back to the bed.

Maesa had stripped down to her smalls and was slipping beneath the covers. Serana’s heart pounded as she watched the smooth curve of her tanned shoulder disappear beneath the furs. She scolded herself firmly. She was not some starry-eyed youth, eager to conquer every lover she could find as quickly as she could seduce them into her bed. Of course, Maesa was already technically _in_ their bed and had been for the last few days…

 _‘Divines preserve me.’_ She intoned silently as she crossed the room, trying to banish the more salacious of her thoughts.

She caught the glimmer of something silver around Maesa’s neck, and her previous struggles were forgotten, supplanted by a sudden curiosity. She stripped to her small clothes quickly and climbed into the bed beside the Imperial, trying to ignore the way her stormy grey eyes followed her every movement.

“What is this?” Serana asked as she settled beside her, touching the pendant where it lay on Maesa’s chest. She’d seen it once before, only a glimpse, the night they’d stayed at the Candlehearth inn.

Maesa lifted the pendent up for her to examine, her dark hair spilling across the pillows, the smile on her face sublimely attractive and infuriatingly distracting. “I’ve had it since I was a child.” She explained.

Serana peered at it in what remained of the light. It was a bird of some kind, perhaps a gull, its wings stylised as if it were in the process of unfurling them. At the centre of the birds back was embedded a bright blue gemstone, the colour of the cloudless sky.

“Kynareth?” Serana guessed, resting it back upon Maesa’s chest, trying to ignore how her heart skipped when she accidently brushed her fingers across her warm skin.

The younger woman nodded, her eyes heavy. “Nayr-Keth gave it to me.” She explained, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “She always told me it belonged to my mother.”

The Nord held back her observations on such matters, watching as steadily sleep crept up upon her companion. She doubted rest would come so easily for her, but she was content. She’d slept, albeit in protest, the night before, she could afford a to be a little restless.

 

* * *

 

_From her web in the forgotten corner of the room, the Spider watched as the woman below panted wantonly, her golden skin flush with sweat. She’d wake soon she had no doubt, the Schemer Prince did not let his toys reach satisfaction in the whispers he sent them. It was not his way._

_If she had sent the Altmer a dream it would be quite different. She would be sorely tempted to do just that, and enter a battle of nocturnal passions for the woman’s sanity, but the Spider sensed the presence of a deeper reasoning._

_As she knew she would the woman below awoke with a groan, her eyes wide, the expensive coverlets twisted about her trembling body._

_“I know your face.” The addled Altmer gasped breathlessly to the woman from her dreams._

_The Spider knew it had been a woman, she’d been able to discern that much. She hastily drew herself back from the bedroom, slipping soundlessly into her crease of Oblivion._

_The Spiral Skein._

_She drifted there for a time, pulling threads as she thought, watching half heartedly as lives unravelled. She did not like his methods. Nor did she appreciate his schemes. She appreciated no schemes unless they were her own._

_She lay across her web languidly, tracing a pointed finger across the dark of her sky._

_She would have to discover what he was up to. She would have to go to mundus and find the soul he was seeking to ensnare._

_As the plot wove itself around her, a sanguine smile pulled at her shifting mouth._

_And once she found such a soul, she would simply have to steel it for herself, and bathe in his sublime spite._

_How fortuitous it was the dawn of her day. The day the mortal races celebrated the burning of heretics. The day of her summoning._

_She once more slipped out of Oblivion, following the gossamer thread to her shrine. To Solstheim. And into the red dawn._


	22. News Travels Fast

Serana was flung bodily into wakefulness. Her ears were assaulted by an incessant pounding, a gruff man’s voice shouting. Despite both being muffled by the thick wood of the bolted door, they still managed to make her wince.

Maesa was stirring in a similar state of confusion to her own, blinking rapidly to try and drive away the sleep from her eyes. “That’s Hadring.” She yawned, her thoughts and words not quite collected from her dreams, leaving her in a thick murmur.

Serana hauled herself from the warmth of the Imperial’s arms, slipping out into the frigid cold of the dark room. Hastily she wrapped her cloak around her body, thankfully dry, and padded her way over to the door.

She fumbled with the bolt in the gloom, but eventually yanked the bar aside with an unladylike grunt of annoyance.

As soon as the door was opened she was thrust into the fire of a particularly distressed sounding cantankerous old oxen.

“Divines girl! How long do I have to pound on me own door to rouse your gods damned arses!”

Serana winced as the dim light from his swinging lantern made her eyes water. She pulled her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, and peered up at Hadring, not bothering to hide her ire from her expression.

“Was is it Hadring?” Maesa asked, sitting up in their bed, pulling the blankets to her chest to cover her modesty.

The old Nord didn’t even pause for breath. “There are damned soldiers on the roads! They’re patrolling the length of the Pale, looking for trouble! Already had to turn two groups around this morning! They’ll be back though!”

“Under whose banner?” Serana asked, the severity of Hadring’s warnings not quite reaching her amidst his tireless yelling.

“EVERYONE’S!”

She retreated a step into the dark sanctuary of their room, forced back as his bellow hit her squarely.

“How long has it been since the last patrol?” Maesa asked from the bed, her skin pale in the lanternlight.

“Half hour!” Hadring replied, shouting merely out of habit it seemed, already turning from the dazed women to pick his way back through the cellar. “Get yourselves gone by the time the next lot make it here! Else I’ll throw you out into the snow!”

The thanks Maesa called after him were met with the slam of the cellar door, and then they were left in a terrible empty silence.

He’d left them the lantern, perched on the top of one of the many kegs that crowded the cellar. It’s flame danced and fluxed in an absent breeze, throwing the warped shadows of spectres across the walls.

“We need to hurry.” Maesa breathed. Then, she was out of the bed, pulling on her clothing and gathering their gear.

Serana shook the numbness of her shock from her shoulders, seizing the lantern and closing the door, joining the younger woman in her preparations.

“What does he mean, ‘everyone’s’?” She managed to ask a short while later, as she secured her dagger to her hip, snatching up her cloak once more.

“I guess Stormcloaks, the Imperial Legion, and the Thalmor.” Maesa explained, slinging her quiver onto her back, stringing her bow. “It must be Windhelm. There’s no other event I can think of that would draw them all to the Pale.”

“But why do we have to run from them?” Serana pressed as her fingers caught on the catch of her cloak again, stirring a snarl of frustration from her.

Maesa moved to secure it without prompting, though her actions were restricted only to what was absolutely necessary, and she did not linger. “If the Stormcloak’s are from the city, Ulfric may have sent orders for our capture.” She began as they emerged into the cellar, heading not for the stairs to the inn, but towards the gloomy rear of the room, and a long-forgotten ladder. “If the Imperial Legion find us then we’ll probably be asked to report to a checkpoint. I’m sure you can understand why I’d want to avoid the Thalmor.”

“But,” Serana said, watching as Maesa moved the ladder to the underside of a small hatch in the ceiling. “Why is the checkpoint a problem?”

The younger woman climbed the creaking rungs cautiously, testing each with a tap of her toes before she stepped upon it. Near the top, she slid the latch upon the trap door aside, then placed the flat of her palms upon it. “The White Gold Concordat was the treaty that ended the Great War.”

With a grunt of effort Maesa pushed up. Serana could do little to help, certain that the ladder would not support their combined weight. As the Imperial struggled Serana moved to at least hold her steady, stepping up to the base of the ladder, and placing a firm hand upon each of her thighs.

Maesa paused for a heartbeat, her gaze snapping down to her, momentarily bewildered. Then an appreciative smile softened her features, before she turned back to the task. Serana tried not to think.

“In the treaty the Empire capitulated on many of the Thalmor’s demands. It’s one of the reasons Ulfric gained the following he did, one such demand being the outlaw of Talos worship.”

“Who is a newly risen Nordic divine, right?” Serana offered, trying and failing to ignore the soft yet muscled warmth beneath her touch.

“Yes.” Maesa grunted, heaving the hatch to little effect. “Another demand was that the Thalmor were allowed to hunt for Talos worshippers and the remnants of the Blades across all of the Empires lands, though this wasn’t really enforced until the Stormcloaks started the rebellion.”

“Perhaps I should give it a try?” The older woman offered as the hatch stubbornly refused to budge.

With a resigned sigh Maesa nodded and carefully climbed down the ladder. As she stepped from the last rung she paused briefly, standing toe to toe with Serana, who’d remained to guide her descent. For a breathless moment they stared at each other, each of their hearts skipping a handful of beats. But in truth there was little time, and knowing this intimately, if reluctantly, they stepped apart.

“So why does that make Empire checkpoints a problem?” Serana asked, climbing the ladder and squaring her shoulders against the hatch.

She felt Maesa’s long fingers upon her upper thighs, but did her best not to flinch or shudder as they steadied her. Stealing her focus to the younger woman’s reply and her task, she pushed against the cold wood.

“Where ever the Empire are, so are the Thalmor. There is no one without the other.” Maesa explained. “If we had to go through one of the Empire’s checkpoints the Thalmor would know about it.”

Her muscles straining, Serana heaved the heavy hatch slowly open. A shaft of blinding white winter light cut through the gloom of the cellar, alongside a bolt of icy air. She climbed up and out, finding herself behind the Inn, tucked behind stacks of tarp covered crates and barrels. Once she’d helped Maesa up, they together eased the hatch shut.

The Imperial kept herself low to the frozen ground, pressing a finger tightly to her lips and urging Serana to follow her as she crept through the crates. It all seemed quiet, the morning was crisp, with a low tumbling of greying cloud above their heads, and for all Serana could see they were the only ones outside.

Maesa was unconvinced, ushering her to stay as still and as quiet as she could, whilst she peeked around the edge of the building. When she turned back her expression was grave.

“There are two Imperial Legionnaires by the front door.” She explained, her voice no louder than the softest of breaths. “More are likely in the Inn.”

“What should we do?” Serana asked, scanning the terrain around them, eyes narrowed against the glare.

Behind them lay Lake Yorgrim, frozen over with thick white ice, even at this stage of the year. There would be no hiding down there. On the other side of the road there were trees, sparse and wind buffeted, but enough to provide some cover. Beyond it were the snow dusted spines of the Pale Mountains.

“There’s a path through those mountains.” Maesa whispered, following Serana’s gaze. “The Wayward Pass. If we go through there we can avoid the roads, and cut across the glaciers to Dawnstar.”

“How do we get past them?” Serana tilted her head in the direction of the Inn. “That’s a wide road to sneak across.”

Maesa looked troubled, her brows knitted together in a pinched furrow, her teeth worrying the inside of her lower lip. “There is a way.” She said softly.

Serana gripped her arm, at once recognising the fear in her voice.

“After I speak, run.” Maesa ordered, steel in her eyes, even though her body shook.

“What are you going to do?” The older woman demanded, not releasing her hold.

“I’m going to shout.” Maesa replied.

She opened her mouth to protest, but she was silenced swiftly by Maesa’s hand.

“There is no other choice.” She insisted. “And the longer we stay here the more chance we will be caught.”

She shook her head. She’d think of something else, there was some other form of distraction, surely.

Maesa smiled at her tenderly, removing her hand from her mouth to caress her cheek. “I’ll be alright.” She promised. “But you must not waste the moment. As soon as it’s done, you must run.”

Serana wanted to argue, but to do so risked discovery. Reluctantly she nodded, turning her face to kiss the Imperial’s soft palm. “Alright.”

Maesa’s nod was sure, but her gaze trembled with apprehension. She took a breath, drawing in the cold air deeply, nodded once more, then crept back around the rear of the Inn.

Time dripped past unhurried whilst Serana waited. She watched Maesa closely, until she disappeared from view, then she listened, hearing nothing but the gentle wintery breeze. Her heart hammered distractingly close to her ears, thrumming beneath the surface of her skull. She wished it would be silent, but hastily took her thoughts back. She would not give up Maesa’s gift, not for anything.

Suddenly there was a cry from the lake.

The screech ripped through her mind, tearing at her ears. Serana pressed her hands to her head, expecting to feel the hot stickiness of blood beneath her fingers.

A woman was running towards her, a red smear on her tightly drawn lips. She was tugging at Serana, urging her to run. There were figures down by the lakes frozen surface now, swords drawn, armour glinting in the low sun.

The ringing in her skull persisted, but Serana was regaining a little of her senses. Maesa pulled her towards the road, a terrible scratching sound coming from her throat. Picking herself up, she turned and ran towards the safety of the trees, not looking back again, even as the shouts of the soldiers rose above the ringing in her ears.

Branches tore at their clothing, roots disguised the nights snowfall caught at their toes, but on they ran. Serana only stopped when she heard Maesa’s feet falter, skidding to a hault, and turning to find her clinging with white knuckled hands to the lowest limbs of a bare pine.

She was bent over, almost doubled, her shoulders shaking, desperate wheezing coughs wracking her entire body. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. Serana went to her at once, taking her into her arms, lifting her pale, sweating face to the light. There was blood on her lips.

Maesa leant heavily on her, limbs dropping to her sides as the Nord moved them towards a fallen trunk. When Serana sat her down, Maesa folded against her side, still wheezing, though the coughing had thankfully faded.

“Darling, tell me how I can help you.” Serana pleaded, holding her tightly, cradling her trembling body.

Maesa shook her head limply, lifting a clumsy, fumbling hand to her own throat. The first time she managed to lift it high enough it slipped from her neck, resting between them.

“Please.” Maesa hissed, her voice as dry as the crunching of autumn leaves. She looked down to her hand as she struggled to lift it again.

Serana took it up gently, placing the palm of Maesa’s hand against the burning skin of her throat. Soon the brilliant glow of magic flowed from her fingers, coiling in the chilled air briefly before sinking into her skin. In a painful heave Maesa gasped, her whole-body lurching in Serana’s arms.

It took many minutes for her to regain the strength to talk, all the while the forest around them was silent. They seemed to have escaped unnoticed.

“Never do that again.” Serana whispered, caressing the side of Maesa’s face as she recovered, brushing her hair from her eyes. “Promise me.”

The younger woman shook her head at once. “I can’t make that promise Serana.” She croaked, her throat still raw. With a wince she sent another slow pulse of magic to the abused tissue. When she spoke again it was almost back to normal. “I was a fool for letting us run so far.” She explained.

“I was a fool for agreeing to it in the first place.” She let her sit straight, though the Nord kept her arm around her back, stroking what she hoped to be soothing circles across it. “Is it always that bad?”

“No.” The Imperial replied firmly, her fingers massaging her neck. “And sometimes, yes. It depends on the shout. And how much running I have to do afterwards.” She gasped again, softer this time, less pained.

Serana shook her head, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She drew in her own shaking breath, trying to sooth the sharp stab of panic that had seized her as soon as she’d realised Maesa had collapsed. She felt her gentle touch upon her cheek, and let her mouth be guided to her trembling lips.

They kissed only briefly, even if they had not been followed, the forest was not safe to linger in. It was a small reassurance, nothing more. That they were both still there, alive, well, and that they still had each other.

They parted on a sigh, and stood, helping each other to their feet.

“The Wayward Pass isn’t far.” Maesa explained, resettling her quiver and bow, dusting the snow from her clothing. “We should be able to reach the glaciers by noon. I know of a safe place we can stop for the night, I doubt we’ll be able to make it to Dawnstar today.”

 

* * *

 

From the shadows of the temple she watched the lone guard, his spine tempting the itch of her throwing hand.

‘No killing.’ She’d been told. Begrudgingly she admitted that killing would have brought more Thalmor to the city, but she let the itch remain. It was a comforting reminder that through all their arrogance, the aldmer were just as easy to gut as any other race.

Four days had felt like an age. She did not work well with the Companions. They were too loud, too garish. She and Vilkas had practically come to blows within the first few hours.

 _“How could you let her go off alone?!”_ He’d shouted when she’d told the assembled company of Maesa’s plan.

The memory twisted her irritation, making her grind her teeth and clench her dark fists. Damned _duar_ knew nothing. When she’d told him as much he’d tried to strike her, and Jenassa had tried to stab him in return.

Only Lydia had stopped them from doing any lasting damage to each other, stepping in with one of her withering lectures on the real enemy and teamwork. Vilkas had been cowed, whilst Jenassa had bit her tongue and the insult she longed to hurl.

Of all the people Maesa had ever introduced her to, she liked Lydia the best. She was sensible, a little over eager at times, and her sarcasm was grating. But, when it came to listen to wiser council, she did so without complaint. She always had time for ulterior suggestion.

She also cared, almost as much as the dunmer did, about that infuriatingly hapless Imperial. Lydia was the one who’d nursed her after Jenassa had dragged her body back from the Throat of the World. She’d sat with her for the weeks she’d slipped in and out of delirium, taught her to walk again in the months after, gone to her at night when the nightmares woke her.

Jenassa could see the strain in Lydia when Maesa left them. She noticed the hardness to her eyes, the way she looked always to the gates of the city, waiting for word, or the first sign of her return. This time was no different.

At least they had the Thalmor to distract them.

The guard she had been ghosting leant up against the trunk of the Gildergreen, and for the tiniest slither of a moment Jenassa found herself hoping that the Gray-Mane’s didn’t take the opportunity to walk the district, for the aldmer’s sake. He seemed bored, looking about himself with markedly less arrogance than his more fanatical brethren, considering the city with a casual air of disinterest rather than disgust.

They’d nicknamed him the Whelp, clearly being the youngest and least experienced of the patrol sent to Whiterun. More often than not it was Lydia’s job to watch him, but she’d been called to speak to the Jarl that morning, so the duty had fallen to Jenassa.

A twitch in the Whelp’s posture alerted Jenassa to a change, he stiffened, and hastily scrambled to stand to a clumsy attention. Another Thalmor was approaching, one of the more senior of the group, his walk a manicured march of superiority and sneer. When he reached the Whelp he did not hide his disappointment.

Jenassa eased herself closer to hear what was said.

“Anything to report?” The older man barked, peering down his nose at some obvious flaw to the youth’s immaculate elven armour.

The Whelp shook his head, his hand still raised in a stiff salute. “Nothing sir. It’s been quiet all morning.”

“Has anybody approached the Jarl’s residence this morning?”

“No Sir.”

Jenassa choked down a snigger, some guard this boy would be if he couldn’t keep track of a dull posting. Many people besides Lydia had gone up to see the Jarl. In fairness nearly all had been regular servants and nobles, but to say that no one had passed the Whelp at all was idiotic.

A tight sigh, delivered through his pointed nose, left the senior Thalmor, and he lowered his acknowledgement of his underling considerably. “No one at all?” He pressed, though his voice told Jenassa that he had not intention of taking the Whelp’s answer seriously.

“No one Sir.”

She wondered whether he would strike him, the Thalmor’s fist clenching in his golden gauntlet. “Report to the Captain, at once.” He said instead, the order delivered through brittle clenched teeth.

“Am I to be reassigned Sir?” The Whelp asked frowning slightly.

“We are leaving for Eastmarch within the day.” The older elf explained, shortly. What followed was what Jenassa could best describe as a thorough military dress down of every single flaw and discrepancy the senior Thalmor could possibly name in the space of a few minutes.

She did not stay to witness the rant in its entirety, spotting Lydia descending the steps from Dragonsreach, and walking into the warm sun to meet her.

As she neared she could tell something was wrong. The Nord’s steps were too hasty, tripping more than once as she descended, her face pale, her gaze lost to somewhere far away. She only saw Jenassa when the dunmer stood directly in front of her, stopping only just short of walking into her.

When the elf opened her mouth to ask exactly what had happened, Lydia hastily shook her head. She shot a furtive glance to the Thalmor near the Gildergreen, then to the curving roof of Jorrvaskr. Jenassa rolled her eyes, but followed none the less as the Nord climbed up to the Companion’s hall.

They were met by the heady mix of mead, sweat, and the bellowed words of a heated, but all too familiar argument between the twins, each brother grappling with the other in the centre of a makeshift arena that seemed to have been constructed out of shoved tables and abandoned chairs. Most of the Companions were in residence, only Ria and Torvar were elsewhere. Some Fort they’d recently taken from bandits to the North, or so Maesa had told them the last time she’d returned from speaking with circle.

Jenassa eyed the spectacle with grim amusement, noting with no small amount of satisfaction that Vilkas was already supporting a rather prominent black eye. Aela, who was among the rare few of the Companions who Jenassa didn’t immediately want to stab on sight, noticed their arrival and made her way over to them.

“Same old argument.” She huffed, smirking as she nodded to the wrestling brothers. “They’ll get it out of their systems in a few hours, then they’ll be singing drunken old songs together by nightfall…” She stopped abruptly as she saw the concern on Lydia’s face. “What happened?”

Lydia shook her head, though what she was disagreeing to Jenassa did not know. When she spoke it was rushed, nervous, her usual calm far from her now. “Word has reached Balgruff, it came during the night. Windhelm is burning.”

They all took a minute to absorb the words, something breakable smashing loudly in the scuffle behind them.

“The Thalmor outside said just now that they were leaving for the hold.” Jenassa said, trying to read the mess of worries upon the Housecarls face. “Was there anything else? That can’t have been the only news to get through.”

“Was it the Legion?” Aela offered, though she looked sceptical. “The peace agreement is still standing, but is it possible they pre-empted?”

“All that’s known is that the city is burning, and…” The hesitation in Lydia’s voice drove a deep primal fear through all three women. “…there are pyres outside the walls.”

Jenassa set her jaw stiffly, halting her mind as soon as it began to build upon the Nord’s words. “When do we leave?” She said, looking solely to Lydia.

Determination met her squarely, and she drew some comfort from it. “I can be ready within the hour.” The warrior said, her dark brown eyes still haunted, but hardened now.

“I’ll meet you at the gates.”

They both turned to look at Aela. The Huntresses shoulders were set squarely, her chin jutting out into the air before her defiantly, and it was clear they would not be able to turn her away.

“Fine.” Jenassa said. Well at least it wasn’t that _duar_. She could handle Aela.

“What’s happened?” Vilkas demanded, his voice gruff, and somewhat nasal due to the dark bruising already appearing around his nose.

Jenassa gritted her teeth as Lydia told him what was happening. She admitted to herself that there’d be no point in trying to hide it from him. He’d just hound Aela relentless until she either killed him or he figured out what was happening on his own.

“I’m coming too.”

She could not supress the groan of frustration as it left her, and whilst Aela smirked, Vilkas rounded on the dunmer in a heartbeat.

“What’s you’re problem with me _elf_?” He growled, his shoulders hunching forward, his lip curled.

Jenassa snorted. “It be quicker to list what I don’t have a problem with.”

“Jenassa, don’t encourage him.” Lydia warned, a weary sigh already leaving her.

To the surprise of everyone, instead of pursuing the dunmer further, Vilkas instead turned to the Housecarl, his pale eyes blazing. “This doesn’t concern you.” He snapped, glaring vehemently at her. “If you had stopped her leaving in the first place she’d still be safe!”

Lydia bristled. “Thalmor are crawling over the city. What make’s you think you would have been able to keep her safe here?”

Vilkas had always had a fiery temper. He was well known for it throughout the city, it was a fact that lost him many a tavern brawl. He was easy to rile. He was also stubborn as an old mule. Such a combination led to frequent regrets.

“Unlike some.” He snarled, pointedly looking to Jenassa and Lydia in turn. “The Companions don’t abandon their family.”

It was actually Aela’s strike that connected first, her fist slamming into the man’s jaw, knocking him soundly to the ground. He landed heavily, not having expected the blow to come from her direction, his body thudding against the boards of the floor with a satisfying resonance.

“For the ‘smart one’ you’re an absolute idiot sometimes.” The Huntress scoffed, flexing her hand, shaking out the stiffness. “Get it through your skull Vilkas, Maesa is not a Companion, she is not some damsel in distress, and she certainly has no interest in your damned fawning’s over her.”

Jenassa snorted again, smirking down at the bewildered Nord. She could see him struggling with at least one of Aela’s statements. She wondered which one was the more difficult for him to fathom. Lydia elbowed her gently, giving her a _‘don’t make this worse’_ scowl, though it was softened with just the hint of her own smirk.

The Huntress, it seemed, was not finished. “I doubt she’s ever looked at a man that way in her life.” She said, crossing her arms over her chest, leaning back casually on one hip. “Now, go lick that wounded ego of yours and find yourself a healer for that black eye. If your coming along then leave your foolish pride here.”

Vilkas gritted his teeth, biting back a retort to his shield sister’s words. As he tried to get to his feet, Aela swiftly kicked his leg out from underneath him, pinning him beneath the sole of her boot which she firmly planted in the centre of his chest.

He began to bark some string of insults, but upon seeing the glint in Aela’s eyes he stilled, falling completely silent.

“And if you ever talk to either of them like that again,” She snarled, leaning her weight down upon his chest. “I’ll string your hide up on the roof of this hall.”


	23. Strong Loyalties

They were arguing again. Lydia shook her head when the Huntress beside her rolled her silver eyes. So long as the two of them didn’t come to blows it was fine.

“Worse than bratty children.” Aela huffed, casting a smirk behind them at the pair. She didn’t attempt to hide her comment, but luckily the current string of insults flying was loud enough that her words were lost.

“Was it really wise to bring Vilkas?” Lydia murmured, drawing a little further away from the pair, quickening her pace enough to put them firmly out of ear shot.

The Huntress matched her stride for stride. “He can swing a sword, that’s always handy.” She shrugged, stretching her arms above her head, easing out her well muscled shoulders. “Besides, you think there’d be much of Jorrvaskr left if I left the twins there by themselves?”

Lydia chuckled. “Probably not.” The evening sun was cheery on there backs, the air was light and fresh, but she felt uneasy. The bodies at Valtheim were still mostly intact, the bandit’s faces peeled back in wide mouthed horror. The crumbling stones the ruined towers were still black with dragon fire.

They’d stopped to check, but neither Maesa nor Serana’s body had been amongst the dead. Perhaps that was what had set the two behind her off again. Before they might have tricked themselves into believing it was a merry little trip to chase up a negligent letter writer. After seeing the bodies, the broken bones and the blood, no one could drive away the whispers of what they might find in Windhelm. Or what they might not.

“Have you decided on the next Harbinger yet?” Lydia asked the Huntress, seeking to drive away her darker thoughts as they walked beside the river. They’d be at Mixwater Mill soon, and Windhelm by midnight.

Aela shook out her fiery hair. “No. None of us are really right for the job. The old man said it himself.” She sighed, gritting her teeth as Vilkas hurled another insult at the dunmer, shooting a pointed glare over her shoulder. “I mean it you flee bitten pup!” She snapped, her voice loud enough to make Lydia wince. “I’ll make you our new gods be damned banner!”

The tense silence that followed was a relief, though Lydia imagined Jenassa would be in need of target practice when they next came to rest. Beating out her frustrations on an unsuspecting inanimate object had always been the best way to calm her temper.

Another long, low sigh eased out from Aela. “I find myself wishing sometimes that she had agreed to join us.” She murmured, looking back to the road ahead of them.

Lydia nodded noncommittally. She remembered it all well enough.

A year and a half ago, in the early spring, when the breeze was soft with meadow flowers. They’d been sat beneath the boughs of Gildergreen, Maesa resting her head upon her shoulder, drowsy from their climb from home. She’d not been walking for more than a few weeks, and the progress had been so slow. But she’d pushed on, as she’d always done, her brave little Imperial Storm.

Lydia hadn’t known her own mother, her father had died when she was still a girl, and she’d grown in the Jarl’s court, a strange half owned, half abandoned child. Loved in a subtle way, but lonely, isolated. She’d latched onto duty, in the hopes of building something of her own, a cause she could dedicate herself too.

Years of training, of martial practice and drills, building muscle, building valour. Loyalty would come later, once she met her Thane. She could only keep moving forwards into the countless days, and hoped that Balgruff, the once boy playmate, now Jarl, chose her ‘master’ wisely.

She’d been surprised when she’d been summoned to the hall, told to dress in her armour, clean herself off from the practice yard, to be presented to her Thane, to find a woman waiting there. An Imperial woman, young, younger than she at least, with skin and hair that marked her southern heritage like a banner.

Maesa had been reluctant to accept her. Not for any interpersonal misgivings, but for her own misunderstanding of the customs tied to Lydia’s service. Balgruff had insisted, an almost paternal stubbornness overcoming him in the face of her reluctance.

Over the months that followed Lydia had been able to explain matters to her. A Housecarl was not a slave to their Thane. They were an asset, a shield, a companion, but also a guide, council, and minder. The last of such aspects struck the younger woman the hardest. Lydia was not only there to aid her, but to watch her, and keep her path lawful and true. If a Thane were to break the law, their Housecarl would not hesitate to bring down the first blade. Or that was how it should have worked.

Matters never stayed so clear. Time eroded all.

Lydia had only discovered later that Maesa had travelled to Whiterun on her second day in Skyrim. That she had been her Housecarl by the third, and that they would not be apart from each other for more than a few days again for three long years.

Alduin died within the first of those years.

They’d watched her leave from Dragonsreach. She, Jenassa, Balgruff. There had been others, the mages from Winterhold, that woman from Solitude… They’d watched her go, a tiny figure upon the back of a dragon.

And they’d waited for her to return.

The days swept by and they’d waited. The others trickled away, leaving for their lives that would not wait, for duties and families, and matters that could not be postponed. Jenassa had left at the end of the second week, heading for the Greybeards at High Hrothgar, to demand news from the old priests.

Lydia had stayed. Her life had ridden away on a Dragon, and she waited for the beast to return her home.

Jenassa had returned with her body, strapped to the back of a horse, broken, beaten, but alive. That day beneath the Gildergreen had been two months after her return. Lydia had been there for every moment.

Whilst Maesa had dosed Lydia had platted petals into her hair, turning the hero of legend into a woodland sprite. She was certain that Maesa had been aware of her, but chose to rest rather than protest. She’d made such progress in the last two months, she’d be able to go out riding soon, perhaps target practice with Jenassa, or maybe even up to Morthal to see Idgrod.

She’d only noticed the old Nord’s approach when his shadow fell across her feet. She’d looked up at him, blinking in the sunlight, her own gentle haze having settled comfortably over her shoulders. Kodlak Whitemane stood before them. Dressed in a loose linen shirt and breeches, his snowy white hair falling unkempt but clean around his weathered wrinkled face.

_“Harbinger.” Lydia mumbled, nodding slightly to the warrior. Even if she wasn’t a Companion herself, their company did deserve respect. Their leader especially._

_Her movement stirred Maesa. She yawned, blinking slowly, lifting her heavy head from Lydia’s shoulder. She nodded to the Harbinger._

_Kodlak grinned wolfishly down at them, his pale eyes twinkling. “It’s good to see you both up and about.”_

_As far as most of the city knew, Maesa had been attacked by bandits, the injuries being such that she’d been forced to her bed. It was a weak alibi, but Lydia had always supported the Imperials desire for privacy._

_The old warrior tilted his head to the bench beside them. “Mind if I join you? My bones aren’t what they used to be.”_

_They shuffled over at once, Maesa a little shakily, but she managed._

_Kodlak eased himself down to the seat with a huff, his joints seeming to creak slightly with the pressure, but settled soon enough. “Aela was grumbling to me the other day.” He said, looking up to Jorrvaskr’s grand hall._

_Maesa was watching him quietly. She still leant heavily on Lydia, the Housecarl wordlessly supporting her, tucking a gentle hand around her waist._

_“Something about no decent competition in the hold.” He chuckled gruffly. “Damn girl can beat the others too easily. It’d do her ego some good to be challenged again. I hear you’re a fair shot Maesa.”_

_There it was. Lydia frowned._

_“I don’t think I could provide much of a challenge for her, Sir.” Maesa replied, smiling, though sadly. “I can barely walk the length of the district, without aid.” She patted Lydia’s arm._

_Kodlak shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be anytime soon. Just the thought of a challenge would get her focused again.” Then, the old man turned to look at them, his silver eyes hard and piercing. “It can kill a person, stagnation. We thrive on the promise of victory, of overcoming trial with the beacon of success awaiting us at the end. It’d be a waste to see such a warrior waste away into nothing.”_

“It helped her.” Lydia admitted, lost to her memories as she stared down at the cobbled surface of the road. “That silly little contest Kodlak organised.” She explained as the Huntress beside her frowned.

“Oh, that.” Aela smirked. “She put up a damned good effort, almost had me at one point.”

Aela had won, but the competition wasn’t the point. Kodlak had been sizing her up. Testing Maesa for the ranks of the Companions. Lydia knew he’d been doing more than that, but she’d never pushed the point. He’d helped her. If the Harbinger wanted to call it initiation trials, she wasn’t going to correct him. Lydia had seen the pride on his face that day, she’d seen it and shared it.

“I would have had her as my shield sister.” Aela’s smile was wistful, mournful of a future that had never come to pass. “She’d have been my underling to train had she agreed to join us.”

Lydia’s ear prickled. She cast an examining look at the Companion, thinking back over her words at Jorrvaskr. “She’s always maintained that the Companions were a little too ‘bold’ for her liking.” The Housecarl said slowly, carefully picking her words.

A bark of laughter spilled from Aela, her silver eyes squeezed tightly shut as she caught her breath. “Perhaps that’s exactly why we needed her.” The Huntress said, wiping at the mirth in her eyes. “It’d be nice to have someone calm in the hall for a change.”

“Aela, did you… do you…?” Lydia had seen the way Maesa had looked at the vampire. Was she bringing fire to an already volatile situation?

Maesa had told her about Serana. She’d done so as soon as she’d returned. They’d sat beside the fire pit in Breezeholm, steaming cider in their cups to take off the early autumn chill, and the younger woman had recounted her discovery of the beautiful vampire. She’d seen it then, the first spark, as Maesa had agonised over her decision to leave the woman with her father. She spent half the evening worrying after her, troubled by the parent’s lack of emotion upon his long-lost daughters return.

With what now amassed to four days alone together, assuming they were both still alright, Lydia had no doubt that things had progressed.

Aela was laughing again, but it was softer now, her eyes looking down to the bridge they’d soon have to cross, to the churning waters beneath its dark expanse. “It’s been long enough that I’ve abandoned any such fawning.” The Huntress said quietly. “Just a bleary-eyed day dream from a long time ago. Still… I would have loved to teach her how to shoot properly.”

Lydia did not reply.

By the time they’d reached the Mill dusk was drawing swiftly in, painting the pines around them an eerie red. Jenassa was first to spot the other travellers. She’d left Vilkas to stomp along with Aela, and walked beside Lydia for a while, when she nudged the Nord sharply, and pointed to the peculiar pair and their strange animals.

“Hail and well met.” Lydia said when she and Jenassa were close enough, offering up a cordial if not overly cheery greeting.

The younger of the two Nord women nodded, her hay yellow hair framing an equally mannered smile. “Hail.” She replied, saying the term as if she were unfamiliar with it, as if the words had not meant what she’d expected once she’d spoken them.

There was a large white wolf at the woman’s heels, it’s head abreast with her hip. It watched Lydia and Jenassa with the bluest eyes Lydia had ever seen. Depthless, fathomless eyes. She felt examined beyond herself, and swiftly looked away.

The other woman was far older, her long grey hair platted back from her wrinkled face, the tips of it brushing the base of her spine. She offered a crooked smile to them, but let her younger companion do the talking. On her shoulder perched a hunting bird, a hawk. It preened it’s wings seemingly unconcerned by their approach, and yet Lydia was certain it was watching them just as closely as the wolf.

“Have you come from the city? From Windhelm?” Lydia asked, drawing her attention back to the younger of the strangers, trying to rid herself of the sensation that she was being scrutinised.

They hadn’t come across another sole on the road. Perhaps if these two had escaped from the city they could tell them of any news.

The stranger shook her head. “We head there now.” She explained. “Is that where you are going?”

Jenassa shot her a pointed glare and Lydia paused before she replied. She understood the dunmer’s caution but these two did not look like any Thalmor she had ever encountered. Nor did they seem to be Stormcloaks. They simply seemed odd.

“Are you going to find out about the troubles?” She asked, rather than answer their question. Jenassa frowned but said nothing.

The blonde woman looked to her own companion briefly. The old woman smirked, her creased mouth parting to reveal surprisingly intact teeth. “They could help us find them.” She offered. She turned to address Lydia. “We’re looking for two women, they may have been involved in the ‘troubles’, as you call them.”

She sensed Jenassa’s shoulders stiffen, and felt her crimson eyes narrow with unguarded suspicion. There would be many people looking for relatives in the chaos, Lydia reasoned to herself. It was highly unlikely that their interests aligned in that respect.

“Who?” Jenassa asked shortly.

The old woman’s smile never left her lips, and despite the growing hostility from the dunmer her wizened green eyes remained warm. “The daughter of our mistress.” She explained, genuine affection in her tone as she spoke. “A young woman named Maesa.”

 

 


	24. She's my lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your official warning for mature content in this chapter. If you wish to skip such don't read the middle section of this chapter (which you should be able to distinguish by the standard --- dividers). 
> 
> For everyone else, sorry this has taken a little longer to write, I wanted to take my time with this, and I also have a new keyboard which is playing absolute havoc with my normal typing speed. I hope you all enjoy.

* * *

 

They had been extraordinarily lucky as they’d traversed the glaciers. For the most part, the cutting Northern gale had stayed away, and the snow beneath their boots was fresh and supported the tread of their boots securely. Serana worried though.

To be upon the ice at night would be deadly. There were no trees here, no chance of shelter apart from between the bladed crags of unstable snow. If they did not find shelter before nightfall they would be forced to continue walking. Sure footing or not, the gullies and chasms would surely end such a foolhardy venture in tragedy.

Maesa was adamant on two points. Firstly, she promised that she knew of a fort, an old abandoned structure half buried in the snow that they could reach before nightfall. Within there would be warmth and food. Secondly, once they’d made it through the pass, she’d refused to go another step till Serana drank from the White Phial.

The Nord had not protested. She’d been curiously reluctant, the causes for such aversion she did not know herself, but she’d acquiesced without an argument. It had tasted like blood, and smelt like blood, and felt like blood as it had run down her throat. But there was little pleasure to the task. It satisfied a quiet itch she hadn’t really acknowledged to herself, and that was all.

By late afternoon Serana’s worries over shelter were far outweighing any curiosity over her vampirism. She kept looking to Maesa, trying to gauge how cold she was by the hunch of her shoulders, when suddenly the younger woman stood straight, her gloved hand pointing to an outcrop of dark stone, peeking out from a sizable drift.

“There.” She said wearily triumphant.

The sun was setting somewhere behind the thick covering of cloud and the sky was dimming, but Serana could still make out the lopsided turrets.

Behind the hint of structure waved the tips of snow encrusted pines, swaying softly in the slight breeze, and Serana could see the hint of life in their crowns. The glaciers had been a desolate place, but this was their edge, and the hardy fauna of Skyrim had firm footholds.

It was a blessed relief, and she said as much to Maesa.

The Imperial smiled. “Come. Ria and Torvar should be inside.” She started off eagerly towards the dishevelled turrets, drawing her cloak around her shoulders to fight off the crawling chill.

“Who are they?” Serana asked, jogging a little to catch up, her feet numb and clumsy from the hours of their ice trek. “Friends of yours?”

“They’re Companions.” Maesa explained, steadying the Nord as she skidded a little. “I helped them run the bandits, who had occupied the fort, out a few weeks ago. They were left here to tend the to the place whilst its future was discussed back in Whiterun.”

Ysgramor’s Companions. Serana had know of them in her time. Nordic warriors who claimed descendants from the first men to settle Tamriel from Atmora. An ancient cult of warriors. “Have you had much to do with them in the past?” She asked, keeping her eyes on her footing as they began to descend into the tiny valley the fort lay within.

“A little over the last few years.” Maesa eyed the silent stones around her, watching for the two Companions perhaps, though her fingers gripped her bow a little tighter as they went. “There was an attack earlier this year. A group of fanatics entered the city and murdered the Harbinger. He was a good man, a good friend.”

“Fanatics?” Serana repeated, spying a figure below them, a man huddled beside a meagre campfire, his body turned to watch the thickening forest of trees at the base of the valley. She pointed the man out to Maesa.

“Torvar!” The younger woman called out, her voice bouncing off the rocks and ice.

The young man sprang to his feet, clutching a sword in one hand and what appeared to be a waterskin in the other. He looked around erratically till he spotted them, then with squinting eyes he peered at them for a good many moments before a large grin spread his scowl wide.

He yelled back, lifting the hand that held the water skin to wave, only to spill some of its contents.

Maesa laughed gently as the young man cursed, dabbing ineffectually at his stained furs. “I bet that isn’t water.” She murmured, leaning close to Serana. “The Silver Hand, they hunt down and kill individuals they believe worship Hircine, but they aren’t particular about who they murder.”

Serana frowned. “Hircine? Do the Companions worship Hircine?”

“Some do.” Maesa replied vaguely, growing quiet as they approached Torvar, her face melting into a warm smile. “Sorry to have startled you.” She said to the grumbling young Nord.

“It’s more excitement than we’ve seen for days, just wish I hadn’t managed to spill half my drink down myself.” Torvar muttered, capping his skin, saving what smelt distinctly like strong mead from further tragic mishap.

“Can’t be helped.” He sighed, then his wide grin returned as he clasped Maesa’s arm firmly. “What brings you to this frigid corner of nowhere?” He asked, glancing to Serana after. “And who’s your friend?”

“Torvar, this is Serana. Serana, this is Torvar.” Maesa recited, smirking at the slight widening of the young man’s eyes as he looked Serana up and down. “She’s my lover.”

Torvar stiffened, coughing violently, his face flush with embarrassment.

Serana could not hold back a snort of laughter. “A pleasure to meet you.” She chuckled, raising a slender eyebrow to the Imperial who shrugged innocently in return.

The afflicted Companion recovered admirably, or at least tried to. “They’re gonna love this at Jorrvaskr.” He muttered, shaking his head, the unevenly shorn tangle of sandy blonde locks swinging haphazardly. He glared at Maesa, though there was no real venom to it. “Hell of a thing to just spring on a man you know.”

“Better to avoid any ill feeling ahead of time.” Maesa offered as recompense, standing just close enough to Serana that their arms touched.

Torvar was startling red now, looking anywhere but at the two women. “Sure.” He grumbled, though she was sure she heard the amusement in his gruff snort.

“Is Ria here?” The Imperial asked, at last granting the man a reprieve from his embarrassment.

“She’s inside.” The young man jabbed a mitten covered thumb towards the fort, a dark wooden door, freshly cleared of the latest snowfall, standing amidst the muted grey stone. “I’m guessing you’ll wanna stay for the night?”

“If you’ve the room.”

Torvar barked out a short laugh. “Room? Damn it Maesa there’s only two of us here! Unless you’ve got an army camped out on the glacier behind you I think we can slot two more in somewhere.”

“Thank you Torvar.” The younger woman chuckled, patting his shoulder sympathetically as she passed him. “I’ll buy you a tankard when I’m next in Whiterun.”

“Better be a sodding barrel.” Serana heard the young man mutter as he went back to his watch.

They entered the fort and found themselves in a cramped corridor, clearly not the original entrance to the structure. A side entrance perhaps, or maybe the access to the wall fortifications long ago. Serana wondered for a moment whether it had been in better repair in her time. She did her best to banish such thoughts.

There was a single doorway at the far end, where after the stones appeared to expand out to encompass a much larger space, split across two levels, with some sort of fire pit at it’s centre.

“Ria?” Maesa called out, eager to alert the woman to their arrival, rather than come across a startled and probably heavily armed Companion.

A somewhat surprised response was returned to them in moments. “Maesa?” There was the scraping and banging of what sounded like many pots and pans, though it could equally have been poorly made armour.

“Lover?” Serana murmured into the younger woman’s ear as they neared the sounds of clanging metal. She delighted in the shiver that coursed down the Maesa’s back as her breath tickled the Imperial’s skin.

“Hush.” Maesa urged on a playful whisper, cupping her cheek as Serana peered over her shoulder and placing a fleeting kiss to her jaw. “Better to tell him that, then he try to drunkenly flatter you all night.”

Serana snorted. “Then I am most grateful for your intervention, but just to be perfectly clear…” She drew closer to her ear, till she could feel the heat of her blush charge the air between them. “I wasn’t complaining.” she whispered.

She had withdrawn to an appropriate distance by the time they’d entered the larger room, though she immensely enjoyed the flustered bewilderment Maesa wore in her absence.  

The space seemed to have once been some form of kitchen for the fort. There was a long table, large enough to sit twenty in comfort, and several abandoned chairs, stacked to one side. Ragged cupboards and shelves dotted the walls, though most were now bare save for a few suspect looking bottles. At the centre of the room lay a large open firepit, the smoke from which appeared to be drawn to a singular chimney hole high in the vaulted ceiling.

A woman stood beside the fire, her shoulders broad, her chestnut brown hair braided back in a warrior’s style, red war paint underlining her light hazel eyes.

“Maesa?” She said, speaking in the same lilting tones the Imperial did.

“Hello Ria.” Maesa greeted her, hugging the armour-clad woman warmly when she drew near.

“What in the god’s names are you doing out here?”

 

* * *

 

Torvar had not been exaggerating about the forts size. The majority of the structure was buried under the snow, leaving only a fraction visible from the outside. It was a warren of corridors and passageways, with more rooms than the two Companions could ever hope to make use of.

Most of the fort was barren, Ria had told them of the arduous task she and Torvar had undertaken clearing the place of the debris of its last occupants. There had been a haunted look in the Imperial Companions eyes as she’d explained where they’d built the pyres for the bodies of the dead prisoners. The remains of the bandits who had not fled, members of the same Silver Hand Maesa had told Serana of, they’d rolled into the glacial crags.

The two visitors had managed to find a room still comfortably furnished, with a serviceable fireplace, a little way away from the kitchen. Torvar and Ria slept near the entrance, having made bunks for themselves near the warm of the fire.

Once news of recent events had been shared, along with a tankard of mead and some bread, Ria had bid them a good night, offering to go with them to Dawnstar in the morning. She had to fetch fresh supplies anyway and she’d like the female company a while longer before the pleasure of isolation with Torvar began again.

Maesa accepted her offer, grateful for the guide through the snowy forests, and then they’d parted.

Serana sat on the comfortable, if musty bed, and watched as the younger woman tended to the fire they’d set in the dusty hearth. Its steady warmth spilled out into the room, a welcome relief to the snow and ice of their journey. They’d already set their cloaks aside, folding them neatly atop of a battered dresser, their sodden boots placed by the locked door.

“Are you still smirking over what I told Torvar?” Maesa asked from the fire place, shooting Serana a bemused glance over her shoulder, her dark curls midnight black against the amber glow of the fire.

“I am not smirking.” Serana protested, smirking now regardless of what her expression might have been before.

“So I see.” She chuckled. She poked at the fire for a little while longer before standing, soundly satisfied with her creation.  Holding out her hands to warm near the flames, Maesa briefly glanced at her again, smirking, before shaking her head and looking back to the hearth. “I should have let him try to flirt with you for the evening. It’d would have been interesting to see how long you would have lasted. He can be highly entertaining, if not so eloquent, when he’s a good way into his cups.”

Serana traced her amber eyes along the curves of the younger woman’s back. She got up from the bed and crossed the small room to where she stood. Smoothly she wove her hands around Maesa’s waist drawing her tightly into an embrace, the soft contours of her back flush against the Nord’s chest.

“I much prefer being here with you for the evening.” She murmured, pressing her nose lightly into her dark curls, brushing the gentle curve of the younger woman’s neck.

She felt Maesa’s heartbeat quicken, the pulse so close beneath the surface she could count every beat. In no more than a whisper she asked, “Are we not resting tonight Serana?” Her hands caressed the Nord’s arms with a tender touch, her fingers drawing hypnotic patterns across her skin.

Serana’s cheeks flushed hotly as her mind ran free with implications. To calm herself she began to caress the curve of Maesa’s hip bone, tracing her own circles around its peak through the fabric of her dress.

“I want you.” Serana murmured, placing a light kiss upon the upper curve of her shoulder. “But, I don’t want to push my desires upon you. I know it may seem rushed if we were to... I would happily just lie beside you, if you’d prefer to wait.”

The young woman shifted a little, twisting her upper body around, meeting Serana’s eyes. She cupped her cheek tenderly, stroking her face with her delicate fingers. She looked at her so deeply, so far beyond the surface of her body, Serana wondered whether she might be the first person to ever study her so closely, to truly see her soul.

She kissed her, carefully, as if the Nord were something fragile, as if she was scared of breaking her. It was not a lengthy kiss, and Maesa withdrew sooner than Serana would have liked, but she was stilled as the younger woman turned to fully face her. As her other hand slipped under the neckline of her dress, her warm palm drifting across the hollow of her right shoulder.

As Serana drew in a shaky breath, Maesa whispered to her, her words weaving between the Nord’s slightly parted lips. “Why would I want to wait, when I have been never felt more certain in my life.”

Her nose crinkled with her grin, and Serana could not hide the furious happiness from her features. She smiled widely as she kissed her again, her hands pulling her close. She smiled as she walked them clumsily back to the bed. She smiled as she turned Maesa about and lowered her to the furs. And she continued to smile as their lips drew apart and as she looked down upon the woman she would make love to, flush from her kiss, eyes glistening reflecting back her desire, wanting Serana just as much as Serana wanted her.

“I am yours.” Serana breathed, drinking in the sight before her as she leant over the bed, he left hand planted firmly beside Maesa’s head, her right caressing the soft swell of her flush cheek. “For as long as you’ll have me, I am yours.” And she meant it, more than she had ever meant her pledges to _him_ , more than she could ever have justified to herself before that very moment.

Maesa’s expression fell into something so close to sadness that Serana felt a jolt of panic. But then she spoke, with the greatest care and more love in every word than Serana’s heart could bear. “Then I am yours alone till that day.”

They still wore the dresses Niranye had found for them, simple shifts of good linen, with warm over tunics, green for Maesa, and a faded red for Serana. They were cinched at the waists with leather belts, with the tunics laced also up the front of the bodices. It had been quite a time since Serana had worn the garb of her past life. Maesa had insisted she dress in simpler clothing on that very first day of their travels together, both for practicality, but also in the hopes of remaining inconspicuous.

Now, as Serana’s fingers teased apart the lacing of Maesa’s dress, the belt was the first thing to be discarded, her finger’s tingling with the heat already radiating from her skin beneath, she wondered whether anyone would recognise her anymore. A normal Nord woman, travelling with her lover, garbed in well made, if plain clothing, her hair worn loose without it’s braids.

Her regal clothing, the cloth of her station, crimson silks, black leather, and the collar… They were all back at Maesa’s house in Whiterun, hidden in the bottom of a foot chest in her bedroom. When they returned to the city, she would collect the pieces together, then she would burn them all. She would melt down that hated collar and sell the metal for scrap. She never wanted to see it again, she never wanted to see the gleam of _his_ face starring back at her, clamped around her neck. Where _his_ hand had once been. 

She felt Maesa’s hands upon her face. The younger woman guided her up to look at her. “Serana? Is something wrong?”

The Nord shook her head, her hands finishing the last of the laces of her dress, easing the green fabric apart, the white linen of her shift the only obstacle between her and the Imperial’s skin. “Just… memories.” She explained softly, tracing a nail across the crumpled fabric, following the folds of cloth absently. “Memories I’d rather forget… and replace.” She saw the lingering questions and concern in her pale eyes.

Maesa sat slowly, the green of her tunic slipping from her shoulders, falling forgotten to the bedding. Serana stood, feeling foolish, certain that her distracted state had put the younger woman off.

Maesa undid her belt swiftly, the little strip of leather falling to the floor. Then her clever fingers began to unlace her dress, moving steadily, from the utmost to the lowest. Never did those pale eyes leave hers.

“You don’t have to tell me.” She said softly, with every tie undone she caressed her body, leaving a trail of prickling fire. “I remember the stories. The very first vampire was called Lamae Bal, wasn’t she?”

Serana froze, her eyes growing wide, her skin cold.

“Yes.” Maesa nodded, taking her startled expression as confirmation. “I remember the stories of what happened to her.”

Her red tunic pooled onto the floor to join the belt. Maesa took her hands softly into her own, and tugged her down to the bed, guiding her to sit as she stood, their movements a half conscious waltz as their positions reversed. Maesa was much closer to the bed than she had done, her legs bumping against Serana’s inner thighs as she stood between them.

Her delicate fingers tilted Serana’s chin up, and she kissed her forehead, lingering there for a few moments. “I would give you all the stars in the nights sky if it would take away those memories.” She whispered.

She knew. With a hollow thump of Serana’s heart she realised that Maesa had figured out, or maybe simply guessed some small part of the ritual, the _exchange_. She wanted to cry, but would not give _him_ that victory. She simply sat, feeling numb, and waited for whatever would come next, unable to think of anything else to do.

Maesa looked down upon her, her grey eyes shining and full. “I would give all to make you happy Serana.” She said, her hands leaving her face and moving to begin to gather handfuls of the linen shift. In a swift movement she pulled the garment up and over her head, her dark curls falling around her bared shoulders. She removed her small clothes without fuss, and then she stood before the older woman as beautiful and as vulnerable a creature that Serana had ever seen.

When she reached out to touch her, Maesa moved her body to meet that touch. When she pulled her down onto her lap, Maesa came without hesitation. When Serana kissed her passionately, Maesa wove her fingers into her hair and met her every passionate movement with fervour.

Fire lit every contact that the younger woman’s body made with her own. Serana felt the terrible burns sear into her heart, marking it and her for life. She tasted embers on her tongue, felt Maesa’s fingers on her scalp like irons fresh from the forge. She was alight for her, and she knew she could no longer bear the feeling of her clothing’s restrictive grasp.

She twisted around, once more placing Maesa upon the furs of the bed, kissing her till she felt the strain of her starved lungs, and only then pulling away. She tugged her shift off, and almost ripped her small clothes from her body, tossing them carelessly behind her.

When next she found Maesa’s mouth her skin erupted in divine fire. She devoured her, drinking in the harsh breaths she caught as their bodies moved together. Her hands moved from her hair to her back, holding onto her tightly.  

If she could kiss her lips for all eternity she may have been satisfied, if not for the insistent tug of her curiosity. There was so much of her to explore, to touch, to taste, she was compelled to leave her mouth, trailing hot kisses where ever she roamed.

She felt the hitch in Maesa when her kisses reached her breasts. She marvelled in how heavy her eyes were lidded as the younger woman looked down to her. The need in her belly growing as she felt the rapid hammering of her heart just beneath her mouth.

Serana closed her eyes and took a long moment to rest her brow against that beat, touching her forehead to the skin between her breasts, and simply listening to its rhythm. She knew her own would be meeting it, beat for beat.

“It is yours.” Maesa murmured, laying her arms above her head, exposing all she was to the woman on her chest.

When Serana next looked to her she found her smiling, flustered, eager, and smiling as if she had been witness to the happiest moment she could ever have hoped to witness. “Your heart is mine.” She repeated, kissing the place between her breasts before rising to her mouth once more. “And you are mine.” She whispered across her mouth as she moved her questing hand down the curves of Maesa’s body, to the sumptuous heat between her thighs.

When she pressed forwards with her palm Maesa gasped, her head tilting back, her spine arcing up from the bed.

“Are you alright?” Serana whispered, kissing the throbbing pulse at her throat.

Maesa drew in a slow hissing breath. “Yes.” She breathed, gasping as the Nord began to shift her touch, drawing small smooth circles with the tips of her fingers. “I…” A whimper halted the words that would have followed as Serana entered her.

She stilled, allowing Maesa to adjust to her presence, nuzzling the hollow of her shoulder with the tip of her nose as the woman beneath her shuddered. One by one her muscles uncoiled, her body settling into the new state of being.

“I am a part of you now.” Serana murmured, slowly easing them into a gentle pace, stroking, caressing, coiling her fingers inside of her. She savoured every sound, every gasp, every hitched breath, all of it. She wanted to hear more, wanted to hear her for an eternity, to hold her like this.

And yet she also wanted to give her the pleasure that her body was building towards. Serana both wanted to halt time where it was, in this blissful moment, and push it onwards. She wanted to witness that moment of abandon, release, of wholeness and utter completeness, and she wanted to be the one to grant it.

“Serana…” Maesa shuddered, clinging to her.

The sound of her name on her lips, half desperation and the rest a reverential intonement pushed her to seek out her lips again. She tasted her peak, kissing her deeply as Maesa’s body stiffened beneath her. She made the most exquisite sounds, holding her so close their hearts beats blurred.

She looked more beautiful than Serana could ever have imagined, her lips swollen with kisses, her chest fluctuating as she panted, hers bring and yet hazy, blinking in attempt to make sense of the world once more. Serana withdrew from her slowly, then she simply held her as Maesa descended from her euphoria, kissing her occasionally though lightly now, guiding her back to her embrace.

Maesa’s ghostly grey eyes found her eventually, seeing her truly.

“Welcome back.” Serana whispered, smiling as the younger woman smirked playfully.

She was ever gentle as she rolled their bodies over, settling Serana neatly beneath her slightly smaller frame, her tanned hands already beginning to wander the snowy white expanse of her wondrously soft skin. She teased the Nord, drawing her mouth close to her lips, only to pull away as Serana drew up to meet her.

Maesa’s mouth dipped down to her neck after the next teasing swoop. She kissed a sparkling line from the underside of her jaw to the swell of her breasts. She felt her humming to herself before she declared, “You are beautiful Serana.”

Serana found it to be her turn to gasp as Maesa explored the contours of her body, taking her time, seeking out the most sensitive places to lavish her attentions. She quivered beneath her hands, letting her eyes slide closed, living each caress and kiss tenfold within the undistracted haven of her senses.

She was ever tender, careful and kind in her attentions. Maesa moved so slowly, but did not tease her again. She watched, and read every reaction Serana gave, using it to lead her actions. When Serana felt her attentions move to the thrumming heart of her pleasure, she bit her lip and waited for her to begin her exploration of her most intimate of places.

But Maesa seemed to pause, and instead of touching her where Serana had expected, she cupped her cheek, waiting until Serana’s eyes fluttered open to look at her. The younger woman traced her thumb over Serana’s lower lip, her cloudy eyes searching her face.

“I would give you all the stars in the nights sky.” Maesa repeated, her other hand moving slowly to caress Serana, eliciting a shuddering gasp.

“I would give anything I have to take away your pain.” She tenderly pushed her clever delicate fingers inside of her. Serana drew in deep breaths, trying to calm her already building pleasure, trying to maintain control of her hammering heart.

Maesa’s pace was just as her caresses had been, tender, reverential, relying on the rocking of Serana’s hips to dictate the speed at which she built her up. The Nord was partially aware that the world around them was melting away, seeping into a muted colourless curtain. Something of little consequence, a background to all that truly mattered.

All that mattered lay in that bed. They were all there was. Maesa, her loving touch, and Serana’s heart as it drummed out its strong steady rhythm of life.

She was close. She could feel the tightness clenching in her core, she could feel Maesa’s name upon her lips, but could not recall having said it. Serana could feel her release approaching, and it did not frighten her. She was safe. Maesa was guiding her towards the precipice, she would take her to the peak, let her fall, and catch her as she descended.

“Serana.” Maesa whispered as she did indeed plummet into the embrace of the utter completeness.

She felt Maesa cradle her shuddering form as she rode out the waves of her euphoria. Her lips were close to her ear, she could feel her breath across it.

“Serana.” She said it again, coaxing her, caressing each syllable of her name as it rolled from her tongue.

 

* * *

 

Sometime later Serana contented her wandering thoughts with the steady dance of the flickering flames. She watched as they danced, she traced the shadows across her skin, she counted the freckles that dotted her back.

Musty furs, and an abandoned bed in a rundown fort, amidst the frozen wasteland of Winterhold. It was a far cry from what she had imagined.

It made Serana smile to herself.

Sometimes reality was better. She would not have changed it.

Maesa stirred in her sleep, waking gradually, finding her eyes in the amber light of the fire. She smiled in such a way that her nose crinkled, and reached up to her, tracing Serana’s jaw with a single sluggish finger.

“Your eyes are somewhere far away.” She hummed, tucking a stray lock of her dark hair behind the Nord’s pale ear. “What were you thinking about?”

Serana was certain, no matter how long she might live, that she would never tire of such a sight. Of this strange woman, laying beside her, their bodies limp weary from a night spent in pursuit of each other’s pleasure, smiling up at her as if she were the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.

But she had not been thinking about that, not really. Her mind had drifted away to a distant shore. It had gone to the past. Of her life before she slept the centuries away. When she told Maesa as much a crease of concern pulled at her dear sweet face.

“Are you alright?” She asked, moving to rise from where she lay, until Serana placed a hand upon the small of her back, urging her to remain where she was.

“I am alright.” Serana assured, bending down to kiss her worried brow. “I was just trying to remember when I last lay with such a beautiful woman. I could not.”

The Imperial blushed prettily and rolled her eyes. “As always your honeyed words are levelled against me.”

“Never against you darling.” Serana said, gazing at her in a manner she would have called foolish if she had seen it upon another’s face. “Only in the aid of making you realise how radiant you are.”

Maesa’s ears grew pink, and she chuckled away her embarrassment. “So, tell me oh fairest lady of mine…” She began, tilting her face to one side, her eyes glinting with mischief. “How many hearts have you thus far broken with such talk?”

Serana laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not as many as you might be thinking.” She replied. “There was never the privacy for romance at my father’s court. Too many eyes and ears, all reporting back to my parents. No paramour could survive long under such gazes as theirs.”

“Were you lonely?” There was no more teasing in Maesa’s voice. She shuffled a little closer to her, shifting to lie on her back. With her storm grey eyes, she looked up at Serana and waited patiently for her to speak.

“I had the court buzzing around me constantly.” She explained, placing a hand upon Maesa’s chest, over the steady beating of her heart. “But, yes. I was lonely.” She focused on her pale fingers, how they contrasted so dramatically with the tawny warmth of Maesa’s skin. “I’m not anymore.”

“Good.” The younger woman lay her hand atop Serana’s, weaving their fingers together. “It is yours Serana. My heart is yours.”

“As mine is yours.” Serana whispered, lifting their joined hands to kiss the skin beneath before covering it once more. “May I tell you something foolish?”

With a curious smirk Maesa nodded. “By all means.”

“You won’t run away?” She asked, only half teasing.

The other woman paused, as if mulling the idea over in her mind, then she shook her head. “I promise, I won’t run away.”

“Alright.” Serana sighed, settling herself to lay beside Maesa, trying to ignore the slight fluttering’s within her chest. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

She felt Maesa’s heartbeat quicken beneath her palm. She studied her expression closely, trying to gauge how her confession was affecting her, but Maesa’s face was maddening neutral.

“Please, say something?” Serana heard her own voice, but barely recognised the sound.

Maesa licked her lips, and drew in a breath, glancing once down to their clasped hands, and then back to Serana’s anxious face.

“I think I am already in love with you.”


End file.
